


Love Is A Rebellious Bird

by 100percentsassy, gloria_andrews



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bullying, Concertmaster!Louis, Conductor!Harry, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Friction, London Symphony Orchestra, Lots of it, M/M, Not too much Zayn and Liam sorry, niall is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 134,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100percentsassy/pseuds/100percentsassy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_andrews/pseuds/gloria_andrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which the boys still make music.  Louis is the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, Harry is the New! and Exciting! interim conductor/ex-cello prodigy who "has made Mozart cool again" according to Esquire Magazine (Louis hates him immediately, which is definitely why he internet stalked him in his dark bedroom late at night that one time), and Niall is the best.  Zayn and Liam are around too.</p><p>Don't hum Bolero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We will be aiming to update every Friday.
> 
> Lacedildo did some AMAAAZIIING fan art on tumblr of [Louis in the first scene](http://lacedildo.tumblr.com/post/78041464901/you-guys-i-love-love-is-a-rebellious-bird-so-much)!!!
> 
> [More amazing](http://saljfc.tumblr.com/post/80467862425/i-did-this-because-i-just-adore-love-is-a) [fan art](http://saljfc.tumblr.com/post/81801310669/so-i-did-a-thing-again-ill-never-spam-love-is) from saljfc on tumblr (InsaneB on ao3), as well as one of the headers below!
> 
> And thank you Laynefaire for making the [other header](http://laynefaire.tumblr.com/post/81692194861/love-is-a-rebellious-bird-100percentsassy-and) !

  
_The bird you thought you had caught by surprise_   
_beats its wings and flies away..._   
_Love lies afar, you wait and wait_   
_and when you don't expect it anymore, there it is!_   
_All around you, swift, so swift_   
_it comes and goes, and then comes back._   
_You think you've caught it, it eludes you;_   
_you think you’re free, it captures you._

The Underground is always crowded in the winter, when London’s yellow streetlight haze is too weak to lift the snow fog on Chilworth Mews and there’s nothing to do but shiver, wet breath heating your scarf and steaming your glasses as you tramp down the slick, dirty steps of Paddington Station clutching a violin case to your chest at 6 a.m.  It’s absolutely wretched, and sort of beautiful.

Louis Tomlinson couldn’t see on this particular morning.  His limbs ached with sleep and his fingertips felt frostbitten in the cold.  They itched as he descended into the damp heat of Paddington, all echoing tile walls and the faint smell of piss, one small note in a dissonant tone poem of humanity already up and rushing to jobs in the City.  He hurriedly wiped the mist from his glasses as he touched his Oyster card to the reader and stumbled through the turnstile, lifting his violin protectively to nudge the hard metal bar with his hip.

A small coffee stand was doing good business just down the tunnel from the platform.  Louis smiled gratefully at the vendor as he dropped 90p onto the counter with a satisfying, musical clink and accepted a styrofoam cup filled with hot, black liquid.  He turned to catch his train.

“Change?” the vendor called after him, holding a shiny 5p up between grimy fingers.

“Never,” Louis quipped, and mustered the energy to throw the old man a wink as he headed to the platform.

The 6:14 Hammersmith & City was right on time.  Louis ducked onto a car and sat with one arm around his violin, hugging it to his side as he sipped his coffee and glanced around at his fellow travelers.  There was a tired-looking woman in a faded lavender coat, fussing over a smudge on the cheek of her cranky toddler.  They were discordant, obviously.  A quiet, workaday harmony that wound through the stable melody of the train and expressed all those tiny frustrations, the sideways steps in the steady march of life.   _Come ‘ere, love.  You come ‘ere now._  There was also a large man, frowning as he flipped through the Financial Times.  Louis added a bass sigh -- _down, down, down_ \-- underneath the upbeat, rhythmic notes of the melody, a tremolo every time another newspaper page fluttered over.  A young woman, probably a student, gazed steadily out the dark window of the train at the flashes of electricity, dreaming or staring at her own reflection.  She sang a tentative descant in Louis’s mind, the only note of hope this morning.

_Something’s coming; something’s coming…_

_Come ‘ere, love._

_Down, down, down._

It was all a horrible muddle.  Louis frowned, staring into the grainy dregs of his cup, cracking the styrofoam rim with his thumbnail.  Widening the rip, letting small white confetti flake off onto his coat.  Some mornings his little game yielded results.  Louis would arrive at rehearsal enthused, leitmotif from the train running through his head, fingers twitching to translate notes onto staff paper.

Nothing was good enough, though.  Especially not lately, under the oppressive winter sky that had wrapped London in dirty cotton for months, muffling all the sharp thoughts in Louis’s head.  Letting nothing but empty wind howl through the cold streets.  Squealing strings.

“I _hate_ avant-garde,” he muttered.

St. Luke’s was a short walk up Goswell Road from Barbican Station, then east on Old Street for a few hundred meters.  Louis slipped through the wrought iron gate and stared up for a moment at the stark grey stone church, which had been remodeled in the mid-90s into a rehearsal space for the London Symphony Orchestra.  A raven circled the steeple, gothic and cawing, like something out of Poe.  Louis huffed a cloud into the air and wondered why the end of January always insisted on being the most depressing part of the year.

The sun was barely up by the time he was settled into one of the practice rooms in the church’s warren-like maze of a basement, playing scales and practicing runs, warming up his fingers.  One small beat of satisfaction -- he was the first in.  Louis always took a grim sort of pride in being the first member of the orchestra to arrive, and the last to leave.  Dedication was what he had to offer.  It had been his dedication and unwavering attention to technique that had lifted him above other young violinists, won him scholarships and accolades in his steady climb to hold the coveted position of concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra at the relatively young age of thirty.

_Pairs of sixteenth notes, slurring up the staff.  A low trill.  A staccato run._

Soon he was deep into the music.  Practicing never failed to take Louis to another dimension: a painless, bloodless state of complete focus that when he was younger had been his greatest escape -- a refuge from his parents’ divorce, from the messy process of coming out, from the stress of auditions and make-or-break performances in the pressure cooker of the London classical music scene -- and was now a sort of drug that he’d come to depend on.  He was in control of his fingers.  In control of the music, in control of his orchestra.  Numb to everything but the notes on the page.

Eleanor had to knock three times before Louis registered the extra sound.  He blinked, easing his left elbow down as he turned to stare at her wide-eyed face in the glass panel of the door.  It was like coming up from a deep ocean dive.  The sound of her insistent rapping rung in his ears; he felt lightheaded for a second, instinctively cross at the interruption.  He set his Amati carefully in its case, feeling a ridiculous pang of separation as his fingers left the polished spruce, glowing even in the harsh fluorescent light, the color of fine old whiskey.

He cracked the door.  “Yes?” he asked, in a clipped voice.

Everyone knew not to interrupt him when he was practicing.  Eleanor, his stand partner and associate concertmaster, knew this rule better than anybody.  Louis couldn’t help but wonder for a fleeting second if this was some sort of sabotage -- she’d been his closest competition for years, and was always eyeing his job.  But,

“They’ve finally hired an interim conductor,” she said, breathlessly.

_Oh._

“About bloody time.”

Valery Gergiev, longtime principal conductor of the LSO, artistic director of the heralded White Nights Festival in St. Petersburg and Grammy winner -- along with many other accolades of course, although the small, scruffy Russian in his pristine tuxedo standing uncomfortably next to a Lady Gaga clad only in discarded iPhone cases _was_ an image for the ages -- had elected in December to take a hiatus to pursue other projects.   The LSO’s managing director, Nicholas Grimshaw, had been hemming and hawing over appointing an interim conductor for weeks, and Louis was getting frankly fed up.  He’d tried to impress upon Grimshaw the importance of the relationship between conductor and concertmaster, tried to explain the almost psychic rapport that he and Valery had slowly but surely developed through practice and creative dialogue.  It had resulted in some very solid performances last season, and Louis was certain that throwing some random stranger into the mix this late would only cause problems -- more problems the longer they put off the decision.  “Trust, Grimmy,” is what he had said when he’d cornered the tall, bequiffed man in his office two days before.  “I don’t need to like him.  Hell, friendship?  Don’t care.  But _trust._  I have to be able to trust him.”

And nothing.  For three weeks, the orchestra had been in limbo.

“So?” Louis snapped.  “Who is it?”  He tried to project an air of unaffected sharpness, all business and no insecurities -- no sense in letting Eleanor see him with his panties in a bunch.

She shook her head.  “Don’t know.”

Louis sighed, sweeping his caramel fringe off his forehead with an elegant flick of his bowing wrist as his mind raced through the possibilities.  “Well, who do we think, Rattle?  Barenboim?”

“I heard it’s someone young.”

“Someone _young?”_  Louis nearly choked.  Not that it had to matter, but...   _He_ was the young one.  The hip kid with the most Youtube hits, the nerdy fangirls, the social media buzz.  His brain struggled to process this information even as it switched gears and started to produce a new set of names.   _Levinthal?  Not seasoned enough.  Yang?  His Mahler cycle was atrocious…  Christ, this is unacceptable, totally unacceptable!_  

Eleanor smiled sweetly at him, eyes full of poison as she murmured, “I’ll let you get back to your warm up.”  She flipped her cascade of long, perfectly-waved brown hair over her shoulder as she walked down the hall, conservative heels tapping on the linoleum.  The mellow notes of a trombone followed her, the hollow flutter of a flute, strings like singing cicadas…  The orchestra was waking up.

Louis had to find out who their new conductor was before the situation got out of hand.  He had to know who he was dealing with.  He packed up his sheet music, silently fuming that Grimshaw hadn’t called him first, that he’d had to find out from _Eleanor,_ of all people.

He found Niall snogging one of the second violins in the stairwell.

“Ahem.”

Wet, sloppy noises.  Uncoordinated and singularly unappealing.  (You’d think musicians would have a better ear for this sort of thing.)

_“Ahem.”_

Louis gave up and tapped Niall on the shoulder, fixing him with a quick glare as he startled and turned around, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

“Oi, Tommo?”

Louis didn’t acknowledge him, instead raising his eyebrows at the second violin.  “Shouldn’t you be practicing that coda, Cynthia?  With all the acciaccaturas you were asking me for help with yesterday?”  She nodded, looking properly ashamed of herself.  In another second she was gone, adjusting her skirt, and Louis had turned back to Niall.

“Rude,” he said, simply.

“You’re the rude one, mate.”  Niall reached out to tweak Louis’s nipple through his thick wool jumper, and this was --

“... getting so inappropriate, Horan, I swear to God I’ll…”

Niall just grinned and pinched the other one.  Hard.

“Look, I know they’re delightful, but you have to learn to control yourself.”

That made Niall burst into a giggling fit that Louis had to try very hard not to be endeared by.  The man was an imp, an Irish leprechaun of the cheekiest (and frequently drunkest) order, but he was a first-rate French horn player, and Louis’s best friend at the LSO.  Louis rolled his eyes at Niall’s fair, wide-open face, chewed-off fingernails running through the dark roots of his ridiculous shock of bleach-blond hair as he continued to laugh.

“Spill, babe.”

“What?”

“The interim conductor.  I know you know.”

“I might.”  Niall waggled his eyebrows at Louis suggestively.

“Don’t flirt with me, Horan.  Who is it?”

“Harry Styles.”

And, no.  Louis thought he might have just hallucinated, because that name was not on any of his lists, did not rank among even the remotest of possibilities.  Harry Styles.  Harry _Styles._

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“Then someone lied to you.”

Niall snorted.  “Please, Tommo.  I’m a human lie detector.”

“Right.”

Niall drew himself up at that sarcastic slight on his honor, puffing out his chest and poking Louis in the shoulder.  “Got it straight from Grimmy over a pint last night at The White Lion, and he was tellin’ God’s truth, bet me life and your future adopted babies on it.”

Louis considered this.  He paced to the right, flicking his fringe out of habit and pique.  Paced to the left, worrying his bottom lip.

“Well, shit.”

Niall clapped him on the back, already distracted, looking down the hall to where Cynthia had disappeared into a vacant practice room.  “You’ll do fine with him, mate.  I know Harry.”

“Of course you do.  You know all of Europe, right down to snotty Prince George.”

Niall grinned.  “I think you’ll get on.”

Louis rolled his eyes.

“Not if he’s still…” he murmured under his breath.

But Niall was already gone.

*

Grimshaw made the official announcement during rehearsal that afternoon.  Louis tried to keep his face calm and impassive, tried to let phrases like “thrilling young talent” and “the next Toscanini” wash over him.  Inside, he was roiling.  He tried to swallow, but his throat was oddly dry, his Adam’s apple stuck like a lump of clay.   _Just the thin winter air,_ he told himself, not noticing that his right knee was jiggling nervously.

“He’ll be taking over after our big Night of Romance Valentine’s bash,” Grimshaw continued.  “Very exciting.  Thank you again to the life-saving Ms. Price for stepping in to rehearse and conduct that performance.”  He nodded at Lucinda Price, the London Philharmonic’s assistant conductor, who had been called up on short notice a few weeks before.  She smiled and bowed to a polite smattering of applause.

“Mr. Styles will be conducting three cycles with us, in March, April, and June.  He has some very… original ideas.”  Louis hoped he was imagining the slightly worried look on Grimshaw’s face as his gaze flickered down to the first violins.  “I’m sure we’ll all find his work quite provocative.  Right,” he concluded with a clap.  “Back to work, chaps and ladies.”

_Provocative.  Oh, God._

“Harry _Styles!”_ Eleanor squealed under her breath, grabbing Louis’s arm as Grimshaw stepped down from the podium.  “Can you believe it?”

Louis made a soft noise, trying to clear the itch in his throat.  “Not really.”

“But it’s a brilliant choice, isn’t it?”

Louis bit his lip.  They were supposed to be getting out sheet music for the Swan Lake Overture, part of the tired old lineup for LSO’s annual Valentine’s Day concert.  Louis could probably play the entire program in his sleep.  (He’d tried to convince Grimshaw that Swan Lake wasn’t exactly the most romantic of stories, anyway, and that they should spruce things up by replacing it with something more obscure and unexpected, like the Lullaby from Kakhidze’s Amazons Suite.  But he’d received only a snort and a “Stop being ridiculous, Tomlinson,” for his troubles.  As usual.)

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve heard of him, though, obviously…”  Eleanor whispered as she tucked her violin under her chin.  “Cello prodigy, wants to break into conducting.  He was on Leno last week.”

“What kind of conductor goes on _Leno?”_  Louis hissed back, softly stroking the opening notes of Swan Lake underneath the contemplative oboe solo.

“Previn wrote a glowing piece about him in The Times.”

“Oh, lovely, so we should all just bow down to André…”

_“Louis.”_

“What?  So I’ve not been brainwashed by Harry Styles.  He’s a fucking _celebrity,_ flavor of the moment pop conductor who knows how to charm the right people, probably going to end up with a reality television show…”

“Not to mention handsome as all fuck.”  Eleanor raised an elegant eyebrow at him as the music began to swell.

“Yeah, I’m sure that hasn’t hurt his career,” Louis muttered darkly.  Eleanor just pursed her lips and turned back to their music, bowing with the sort of forced theatrical gusto that Louis had always found incredibly grating in performers.  Solid technique was enough for him and hold the extra flourishes, thank you very much.

Timpani rolled like thunder as the overture rose toward its familiar climax, music still striking a chord in Louis after all these years.  It made him think of searching.  Of uncertainty, and long separation.  The truth is, he’d been avoiding Styles-related press as much as possible, and now found himself reluctantly wondering what Harry looked like as an adult.   _Bet he’s not gotten rid of that layer of baby pudge…_

“Earth to Tomlinson.”

Louis realized with a start that he was still holding his final note, having missed Ms. Price’s cut off.  His open E string vibrated up to the high ceiling of Jerwood Hall.

“Um…  God, sorry.  Slight brain aneurysm.  Won’t happen again.”

The rest of the violins were tittering, whispering under their breath.  Louis frowned.  The music was just so comfortable; he’d played it about a million times and he’d only been distracted for a second anyway, so it was no big deal.  Not even a small deal, really.

And now everybody was looking at him.  Wonderful.

“Well, other than that you were lovely,” Ms. Price smiled at him.  “So I suppose I’ll forgive you.  Okay, from 121, please, just the viola section...”

Louis shook his head, trying to clear it and re-focus.  Eleanor smirked next to him, flipping back a few pages in the score and unconsciously following along with the violas on her fingerboard.  “You’re jealous,” she whispered.

Louis blinked at her.  “You’re going to have to explain that one to me, love.”

“Of Harry.  Cos he’s going to get all the attention, isn’t he?  Swooping in, stealing your thunder, when you’re used to being the shining star all the old ladies want to talk to at fundraisers.”

“Right, it’s _Harry_ now, is it?  You two are on a first-name basis?”

“Not yet, but…”  Her poisonous smile was back.  “I wonder if he ever dates co-workers.”

Louis couldn’t help snorting, almost knocking his bow against the stand as he tried to muffle his laughter in the arm of his maroon jumper.  “Oh my god.  You’re going to try to put the moves on Harry Styles?”  

“Maybe I am.”

_The same Harry Styles who got that awkward boner when I took off my shirt at the Double Bar Campfire and had to jump in the lake, pretending someone had dared him to..._

“What?” asked Eleanor, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing,” Louis said, blinking away a few tears and swallowing the rest of his mirth.  “Good luck with that.”

He turned back to the music, resolving to pay attention to rehearsal and to stop bickering about Harry goddamn Styles.  They had a couple more weeks before he would grace them all with his wondrous presence, anyway, and Louis was sure everyone would get sick of gossiping about their new conductor before then.  So.  Time to lead his orchestra in the soppiest, most commercial love songs classical music had to offer.

(Without even one thought about how the LSO was Louis’s kingdom, his _home,_ and Harry Styles would ruin it over his dead body.)

Harry paused on the corner and fished his gloves out of the pockets of his overcoat.  It was a cold night, several degrees below freezing, but there was no wind and he’d enjoyed the bracing air on his skin as he walked to the end of the block, cheeks still rosy from the warmth of the pub.  His hands were going a little numb now, though, so he tugged the buttery black leather onto his fingers and smiled as he flexed them in the warm fleece lining.

“Where did you get those things?” his sister had asked, when he’d visited her in Manchester that Friday.  “Murderer’s gloves!”

“Murderer’s gloves?” he’d said in amused disbelief.

Gemma had nodded and shuddered, “Yeah. They’re terrible. I keep picturing them wrapped around some poor lady’s throat. Or, you know,” she did a stabby motion, mimicking the screeching _ee-ee-ee-ee_ music from Psycho, “like wielding a knife or something. Very attractive, H. Good purchase.”

Harry had let out a frustrated huff.  “Wull, what am I supposed to do? Huh? Wear mittens?” he’d asked, finishing in an emphatic, slightly outraged squeak, as if there were no more childish item of clothing.  Like, _mittens?_  Really!

“Oh, heaven forbid!”

“These are the gloves of an adult man, all right?” he’d said, looking down his nose at her as he boxed out his shoulders and made a show of adjusting them, pulling at the wrists.

She’d just snorted out a laugh, and said, “Well, that makes sense; you guys do most of the murdering.”

Harry rolled his eyes, still smiling at the memory.  He glanced up at the corner of the building on his left, reading off the name of the street.  Long Lane.  That’s where he was.  The corner of Long and Aldersgate.  In London.  Finally back in England, since the Wednesday before.  Harry was glad.  It smelled right here.  And the street signs were normal.

Not that this particular corner was all that familiar as of yet.  Harry glanced back over his shoulder at the pub he’d just left, The Old Red Cow.  Niall had taken him out for dinner and few pints to celebrate his birthday, which had been two weeks before, and also this new job he was starting.  Tomorrow, actually.  He’d begged off early, telling Niall he wanted to get a good night’s sleep, but instead of turning into the tube station as he’d intended, he drifted across Aldersgate and moved further up Long, gazing at the Barbican Centre as he approached it.

His pulse rate ticked up the closer he got, and he shook his arms out a little as he walked, needing an outlet for his nervous energy.  This was where he’d be heading to work in the morning.   _Interim Conductor.  The London Symphony Orchestra._  He rolled the words over in his mind, trying to get a grasp on them as he slowly made his way to the lake terrace entrance.  He shoved his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat as he walked, taking in the strange beauty of the hulking building and the water in front of it, lit up in the dark.

Harry had been to the Barbican before, when he was much younger.  For several workshops, to see a few performances, and once even to perform himself.  But his memories of it were in bits and pieces, scattered in his mind, and the layout of the streets and buildings in the area -- of the centre itself -- still felt alien and unknown.

He’d met Niall there years before, at one of the workshops.  Harry had been different back then, still adjusting to the weight of his rapidly increasing fame as a cellist and to the uncomfortable feeling of celebrity, and it had been Niall that seemed alien at first.  Niall was this unapologetic, vibrant kid who still had braces and wore fluorescent high-tops everywhere.  He was joyful and laidback and easily confident, so happily wonderful at French horn.  Harry had been slightly in awe of him, overwhelmed and awkward.  But somehow, the next thing he knew, they were best friends.  Harry wasn’t even sure how it had happened.  It was as if Harry had blinked and suddenly Niall was calling him Banana Boy and trying to pants him as they raced down the corridors of the basement at St. Luke’s, like they were eleven years old and not eighteen.  (Or maybe, yeah, exactly like they were eighteen, Harry thought with a little roll of his eyes.)  Niall had never stopped being his favorite.  They didn’t get to see each other often, but they always kept in touch through email and Harry knew he was lucky that Niall was in this orchestra.  That he would be there with Harry tomorrow.

He smiled; his heart was still thrumming along in his chest as he thought about the next day.  He tilted his head back to look at the night sky above the fountain to his right, stars obscured by the light pollution, and took a deep breath.  He’d be with the orchestra for the next five months.  Sometime soon, he knew he’d think back to tonight and remember how it felt, remember the weird and disjointed way he’d perceived the landscape before it became familiar.  It was oddly comforting.

Harry turned and shuffled toward the Barbican, walking up to the glass of the enormous windows and looking in at the inviting yellow glow.  It would be open for another hour, but he didn’t go inside.  He could just make out the entrance to Barbican Concert Hall across the vaulted lobby.  There were large banners suspended from the ceiling at various intervals, leading the way to its doors, each one displaying a photograph from a famous LSO performance over the past several decades.  Harry was really only staring at one though, the closest to him.  It was a recent black and white shot of Valery Gergiev, taken from stage left.  Gergiev was in the foreground in the midst of conducting, his salt and pepper hair a cloudy halo around his head, giving him the effect of a mad musical genius.  Stormy and possessed, like Harry imagined Beethoven had been at the end of his life.  And just beyond Valery, set slightly back but still in sharp focus, was Louis Tomlinson on violin.  Harry’s eyes narrowed in on him and locked there, fixed in place.  Tomlinson looked as precise as the focus of the picture, in absolute and exact control of his instrument.  His agile presence in the photograph was almost more strongly felt that Gergiev’s.

“Don’t worry about Louis, mate,” Niall had said earlier, washing down his clam chowder with a swig of beer.  “I know Lou.  ‘E‘s all bark, no bite.  You guys’ll get on.”

“No bite,” Harry repeated to himself in a whisper with a single scoff of a laugh.  His hands were clammy against the lining of his gloves as he tossed his head, taking a shaky, calming breath.  “You aren’t fifteen fucking years old any more, you idiot,” he muttered.  He squeezed at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to ease the sudden twist of anxiety in his stomach.  It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the experience or the talent to have taken this job.  In his heart of hearts, Harry knew this could be absolutely amazing, that he could be amazing at it.  He opened his eyes and took another lingering look at violinist towering before him, larger than life.  “You can do this,” he whispered, steeling himself against the ridiculous shiver of teenage insecurity it sent through him.

Harry shook his head one last time and huffed out a frustrated laugh, tearing his eyes away from Tomlinson and forcing his body into motion, back toward the tube station at Long and Aldersgate.  It was about a forty minute ride to his flat in Hampstead.  He had to be in at seven the next morning to get settled into his office and see the facilities, probably blindly sign and initial a giant amount of paperwork.  All of that before his first rehearsal with the orchestra in the afternoon.

 _You can do this,_ Harry thought again as he waited on the platform for the train, hunching against the cold.   _You_ want _to do this._  He’d lead orchestras all around the world.  He’d drawn out incredible performances from institutions with far less talent than the LSO.  He was wearing the gloves of an adult man!  Everything would be all right.  It would.

*

Everything was going perfectly all right, if a bit tediously, by 1:30 p.m. the next day.  Harry was holed up in his new Barbican Centre office reviewing his schedule for the next couple of months with a fastidiously well-dressed young man named Liam Payne.  Nick had met Harry outside promptly at 7:00 a.m. and then given him an exceedingly cursory tour of the Barbican before turning him over to Liam.  Liam had some kind of administrative position in Development, but he’d been asked to act as Harry’s personal assistant until they managed to hire someone else full-time.  Nick had apologized before he hurried away, apparently swamped with morning meetings, but he’d assured Harry he would be there to introduce him to the orchestra at the 2:30 rehearsal that afternoon.

“So,” Liam said, nudging his tie out of the way to look down at the tablet in his lap, “you’ve got the St. Luke’s Foundation fundraiser on March 11th.”

Harry nodded absently, shaking his leg under his desk and wondering why they couldn’t have scheduled the day in the opposite order.  Rehearsal first, administrative baloney second.  His nerves about meeting the orchestra for the first time seemed to be compounding themselves with each passing minute.  Harry was usually pretty good off the cuff, but he felt increasingly uneasy about not having more formally prepared some kind of speech.   _What was your plan again, you dickhead?  Just stand up there and wave and say ‘Hello, I’m Harry, shall we play some music?'_   He chastised himself, mild panic fluttering in his belly as he stared blankly out the window at the weak flurries of falling snow.

“Hey, Maestro, you still with me?” Liam asked.  He shifted toward Harry in his seat, waving a hand back and forth to try to return him to reality.

Harry’s lips twitched as he struggled against a smile.   _Maestro._  They’d only been working together for about five hours and Liam had already called him that four times.  There was something about his tone when he said it, completely earnest and almost obsequious, that Harry found very entertaining and maybe a little endearing.

He cleared his throat, leaning back in his office chair as he looked at Liam.  “You can just call me Harry, you know.  That’s -- that’s fine.”

Liam turned slightly pink and ignored the comment.  “Well, did you accept the meeting request in Outlook, then?  I just sent it.”  

Harry sighed and leaned toward his computer, squinting at the monitor and then opening his eyes wide as he stared at it, finally wrangling the cursor with the mouse.  He clicked Accept on the new invite in his inbox.  “It’s on the 11th?”

“Mmmhhm, at 8:00 p.m.,” Liam said.  “At the Bailey Hartinger Gallery in Soho.  You get a plus one, of course…”  He leaned forward almost imperceptibly, his eyes darting over Harry’s face.

Harry’s lips twitched against another smile.  He turned and blinked at Liam, expression impassive.  “Okay,” was all he said.

“Okay,” Liam replied after a beat, finally dropping his eyes back to his tablet.  “Oh, I missed this one before, sorry,” he said, with a little wince.  “You have a photo shoot.  Next Thursday, 6:00 p.m.  Don’t worry, won’t interfere with rehearsals…it’s for the promotional campaign for the new season.”

Harry nodded.

“I’m sure you have plenty of experience with those types of things,” Liam said, with a knowing smirk.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Photo shoots,” Liam prompted.  

“Oh,” Harry said, giving a little laugh and a half-nod, feeling a bit self-conscious.  He ducked his head and scratched at the back of his neck.  “Uh, right.”  The last photo shoot he’d done had been for Esquire; they’d written a profile on him right before the release of his latest album.  They’d shot him almost completely nude, on the side of a dusty road with just his cello.  He felt like a ridiculous embarrassment every time he remembered that the pictures even existed.  (It certainly wasn’t as though Niall was going to stop reminding him any time soon.  “’S my lock screen for life, sorry friend.”)

“When can I get to the important stuff, then?” he asked, abruptly, looking back up at Liam.  He placed his palms on the desk in front of him, spreading his fingers out on the smooth wood and tapping at it anxiously.  This was all beginning to feel like horribly executed foreplay and he was impatient to get past it, itching to get to the actual work.

“The important stuff?” Liam asked, looking a little unsure.

“Yeah, can I just start setting up meetings with the section leaders right now?” Harry asked, his voice edging toward strident.  He gestured loosely to the Outlook calendar on the monitor in front of him.  “Do I just email them?  Or have you taken care of that as well?  Is there already some sort of established schedule for that kind of thing?”  His first performance with the orchestra was just about a month and a half away, and he had his heart set on a rather ambitious piece.  Sitting here in his shiny office discussing photo shoots and charity events with Liam was making him feel like time was already slipping through his fingers, like there just wouldn’t be enough.

Liam nodded slowly.  “Yeah, yeah, of course we can do that stuff…” he said.  He looked down at where Harry’s leg was bouncing violently under the desk and then looked back up at Harry, his eyes thoughtful.  “Did you want to head over to St. Luke’s now?  There’s a small office for you over there, too.  We could get you settled in a bit before everyone else arrives; then I can cross-check everybody’s schedules while you’re rehearsing, get you set up for one-on-one meetings with each section leader and a group meeting with all of them by the end of the week.”

Harry stilled his knee, nodding.  “Ok,” he said, letting out a relieved sigh.  “Yes.  Let’s do that.”

“You got it, Maestro,” Liam said, smiling as they got to their feet.  Harry smiled back, a little more endeared this time.

They folded themselves into their coats and made their way down to the lobby.

“Tomlinson first, if possible,” Harry said, as they passed under the banner from the previous night, heading toward the Silk Street exit.

Liam made a sound under his breath.  “Probably a good idea,” he muttered.

He gave Harry an apologetic look as they walked up Whitecross Street toward the old church.  “They’ve been doing renovations,” he said, “since November.  Not sure what kind of office they’ll have found for you.”  He sounded nervously embarrassed, like he was expecting the worst.

As it turned out, Harry liked his office at St. Luke’s immediately.  He liked it more than the one at the Barbican.  Much more.  As soon as he and Liam opened the door, it just felt right.  It was dingy and cramped.  There was layer of sticky dust coating the bookshelf along the left wall and light was only barely filtering in through the odd, milky glass in the room’s lone window.  Every second breath Harry caught a hint of the lingering, phantom aroma of stale cigarette smoke and Windex.  But it felt like a practice room, and that was nice.

Liam didn’t seem quite so satisfied.  It looked a little bit like his worst fears had been realized.  He ran a displeased finger over the top of one of the ancient filing cabinets as Harry took a stack of scores out of his satchel and plunked them down on the old war horse of a desk in the middle of the room.

“All right, Liam?” Harry asked, amused at his distaste.

Liam looked down at the grime on his fingertip and pulled a face.  “I am if you are…I guess,” he said skeptically, turning in a slow circle to take in all of the little room.  “Just wondering.  You know.  If this is really the _best_ we could do…”  He raised his eyebrows at an ugly blob of industrial glue next to the bookshelves, where it appeared something had been wrenched off the wall.

Harry laughed and shrugged, opening and shutting the drawers of the desk to see if there was anything inside.  Leftover office supplies, perhaps?  Some abandoned pens or paper clips?  Rubber bands?  Maybe a stray bottle of Wite-Out or several useless highlighters?  Obviously a secret love note would be the best-case scenario, but Harry wasn’t holding out hope.  Turned out there was only 40p and three red thumbtacks.

“Did Gergiev ever use this office before he left?” he asked, doubtful.  He glanced up at Liam.  “He didn’t, did he?”

Liam let out a punch of a laugh and scoffed, “Absolutely not.  No sir.”  He shook his head.  

“Well, I like it,” Harry said, smiling as he eased down into what seemed to be a practically pre-war office chair.  Not an ergonomic element in sight.  It creaked pleasantly beneath him.

Liam was still unconvinced.

“Location, location, location, Liam!” Harry pointed out, leaning back in the chair, testing out its strength.  For all its perceived shortcomings, the office was tucked into a small lobby directly off the back of the rehearsal hall, all by itself next to some dank-looking bathrooms.  It was convenient, but it felt secluded and remote, like a secret, and Harry loved that.  He laughed, “I bet everyone only comes back here when they need to take a shit.”

Liam looked fairly disgusted now.

Harry giggled.  “Aw, c’mon, Liam.  Privacy!  That’s what everyone likes.  Get all settled in and then down to business!”

Liam just blinked, lips twisted in a grimace.

“Lighten up, mate!” Harry said, still laughing.  And then because he simply could not resist, “Everybody poops.”

Liam was a little affronted, not by the statement about the naturalness of bowel movements, but by the suggestion that he should take it easy.  He started to adjust his body language, like you do right before you unsuccessfully try to convince someone that you are not, in fact, uptight.  He over-relaxed his facial muscles and his posture.  It looked like he might be seconds away from using some kind of “laid-back” slang he wasn’t quite comfortable with, perhaps on the verge of telling Harry he was “stoked” he’d started as the new Maestro.  Harry was liking Liam more and more.

“All right,” Liam said, once Harry had ceased chuckling at his clear discomfort.  “I’m going to go hunt someone down and find the keys to this place.”  It had been a stroke of luck that it had been unlocked to begin with.  “And then I’ll check with Grimshaw to make sure he’s still on schedule.”

Harry nodded, swallowing hard.  His nerves crackled back to life as Liam slipped out of the office, no longer there to distract him from the looming rehearsal.  He stood up and stretched, running a hand through his unruly hair and smoothing out his tie, straightening his suit jacket on his shoulders.  Then he inhaled through his nose and slowly out through his mouth several times with a hand on his solar plexus, taking deep, measured breaths to calm himself.

Two of the four walls of the office were covered in blackboard, lines of staff permanently drawn on for convenience.  Harry drifted over to the one on his left, noticing for the first time that there was a clef, a key, and a sloppily written time signature on the staff at the top of the board.  Notes and bars followed after, covering the length and height of it.  The chalk was smudged and faint and he wondered how long it had been up there, who had left it.  He took another deep breath and started to run through the music on the blackboard in his head, humming it carelessly in an effort to relax.  His arms began to move as if of their own accord, his right hand setting a steady andante tempo and his left gently sculpting the air as he quickly built a dynamic concept in his mind.   _Two, three..._   Harry turned, following the music as it curved around the room, continuing onto the blackboard on the adjacent wall.

“What the f--”  A sharp voice came from his right, halting abruptly into a frustrated, strangled noise.  Harry jolted back to the present, his hands stilling in mid-air.  He swiveled his head quickly in order to see who was speaking.

“What -- what are you _doing_ in here?”  Louis Tomlinson stood glowering at the door, clutching its handle in a white-knuckled grip.  His eyes looked slightly manic and almost alarmed before they darkened, narrowing at Harry, his brows slanting in disdain.

Harry’s head jerked back.  His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Louis, small and smoldering in the doorway.  A wicked pulse of indignation ripped through Harry’s body, cracking like a whip as it ran up his spine and tingled out into his extremities.  It mixed with a twinge of distantly familiar humiliation, hot and low in his belly, and Harry felt his face flush as blood rushed past his ears.

“What am _I--?”_ he finally managed in shocked disbelief, his own brows knitting.  He shook his head in bemusement, and when he resumed speaking it was deliberate and slow, as firm as he could make it in his agitated state.  “This is _my_ office.”

“Your offi--”  Louis cut himself off with an outraged huff, his jaw jutting out, two delicately formed fingers pressed to his left temple.  He gave a quick shake of his head and grabbed the eraser from the ledge of the closest blackboard, barging right in and furiously erasing the music that Harry had just been running through, muttering angrily under his breath as he did so.

Harry let out an aborted bark of laughter, his heart pounding.  He crossed his arms and regarded Louis incredulously.

Louis whirled around to look at him after he’d completed his task.  The blue of his eyes seemed to slash through the room as they darted about, moving over Harry’s face like electricity and making his cheeks heat up.  Louis kept standing there, his chest rising and falling visibly, clenching and re-clenching his left fist around something in his palm.  He’d pushed back the sleeves of his jumper, and Harry watched as the tendons in his forearm shifted under his skin.  Harry raised his eyebrows in a silent prompt for some kind of an explanation.  It appeared that one would not be forthcoming.

“Okay,” Harry said after several more beats, rubbing his forehead and giving another little laugh, not sure how to proceed.  “Um.”  He shifted his weight and thumbed a stray lock of hair off his forehead.  “Well, I’m Harry Styles,” he said slowly, leaning forward with an outstretched hand.  “I’m, um.  The -- the new interim conductor…”

Tomlinson snorted and rolled his eyes.  “I know who you are,” he snapped, ignoring Harry’s hand.  Harry burst into outright laughter at that, finally pushed into genuine amusement by Louis Tomlinson’s ridiculous behavior and not knowing what else to do.  He didn’t fail to notice the little stab of satisfaction he got from the pink it brought to Louis’s cheeks.

Harry leaned back against his desk and crossed his legs at the ankles.  “Oh.  Okay,” he said, hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, still laughing a little in disbelief as he waited for Louis to make the next move.

Louis was just a bit uneasy now, standing awkwardly before Harry.  He was still tense, his slight frame pulled taut like a bowstring, but the manic fury that seemed to have propelled him into the office had died out.  He looked ever so slightly contrite (but also irritated at having to feel that way), and gave a rather exaggerated sigh before stepping forward and finally extending his hand for Harry to shake.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he said, grudgingly.  “Concertmaster.”  Harry felt a low-level buzz in his bones as their hands slid together.  Louis was making eye contact with him, but it felt detached and distant, like he was actually trying to stare through Harry to the dusty green metal bookshelf on the opposite wall.  A surge of annoyance replaced Harry’s amusement when he realized.  He was strangely incensed by it, really, suddenly consumed by an itch to make Louis look him right in the eye, to make Louis fully acknowledge his presence.  He tightened his grip on Louis’s hand just a shade as they shook, enough that he saw something flicker in Louis’s gaze.

“I know who you are, Mr. Tomlinson.”  Harry kept his tone purposefully arch, letting it rumble out slowly, his eyes trained directly on Louis’s face.  “Believe me, I remember.”

And then there they were, Louis’s vivid blue eyes, flashing up in surprise to burn right into Harry’s.  Making Harry’s heart beat even faster as Louis snatched back his hand.

“I’ll see you at rehearsal, sir,” he said tersely, moving toward the door.  He paused when he saw the score that Harry had plopped onto the desk earlier, his gaze moving quickly over the title.  He looked back up at Harry and raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed, rolling his eyes one last time as he turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

Harry sat stunned and breathless on the edge of his desk in the empty office, unable to stop seeing the contempt in Louis’s last look.  He let the shame it aroused in him squirm into his stomach and swirl together with resentment... and something that felt dangerously close to desire.

“No bite,” Harry repeated with a bitter chuckle.  This was going to be interesting.

He was still keyed up from the encounter a few minutes later, when Liam stuck his head back through the door.

“You ready?” he asked.  “Nick’s all set to bring you in.”

Harry nodded, getting to his feet.  He patted the left breast of his suit jacket, feeling through the fabric for his baton as he tried to calm his nerves one last time.  He made to slip out of the room behind Liam, but when he reached the door he paused, brow furrowing.  There, next to the eraser on the blackboard ledge, were the keys to the office.

“Mr. Styles?” Liam called back to him.

And Harry went.

He stood to Grimshaw’s right while he was introduced, smiling in all the appropriate places and surveying the orchestra, taking everyone in.  Harry had met some of these musicians in a professional or social capacity over the years, but most seemed familiar from the hours and hours of concert and rehearsal footage he’d watched over the past three weeks.  Maria Santiago-O’Brien, the elegant Argentine first cellist.  Fussy old Gerald Courtenay, at the front of the violas.  Niall huddled up next to his stand partner, the formidable Grand Dame of the French horns, Gladys Howard.  Zayn Malik, a slender line of black leaning against the wall at the back of the orchestra, timpani mallet twirling slowly in his hand.  Harry couldn’t quite look all the way to the left, to the first violin section.  His gaze kept veering quickly back in the other direction each time it approached the one person whose performances he had studied and pored over the longest while preparing.  He thought he could feel Louis’s eyes on him from across the rehearsal hall, and the idea of it, of being under Louis’s focused and probably hostile scrutiny, made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickle… made him shift his weight from foot to foot.  Louis’s whole presence was a like-ended magnet to Harry; he could look everywhere but there, scared of finding out that he was right.  Instead he moved his eyes over to Janet Ingersoll on oboe, to Nathan Sugiyama on trombone, and back to the cellos again.   

“So please join me in extending a very warm welcome your new interim conductor, the wonderful and talented Mr. Harry Styles.”  Nick finished with a flourish, sweeping an arm out toward Harry before leading the orchestra in a round of applause.

Harry felt a rush of excitement as he approached the podium, his worries about Louis falling away.  The nervous energy that had been building inside him all day transformed from anxiety to anticipation as he finally took his place in front of the orchestra.   _His_ orchestra.  He took a deep breath, hands clasped behind his back, beaming and waiting for the applause to die down.

“Hello,” he said, grinning broadly as he looked out at them.  “Thank you.  Thank you for having me.”  The orchestra erupted into another round of applause and Harry ducked his head, smiling and waiting for the noise to subside again.  He resumed speaking when it had.

“I came to see the London Symphony Orchestra for the first time when I was thirteen,” he said, clearing his throat.  “Mahler’s Third Symphony, in Gergiev’s first season.”  Harry paused and did a three beat impression of one of the more famous aspects of Gergiev’s conducting style, making an O.K. symbol with the thumb and index finger of his right hand and waggling the other three just a touch.  The orchestra laughed.

“I’ll never forget.  Never.”  An unexpected amount of emotion unfurled in his chest, making his heart feel like it was expanding inside of him.  “Seeing that performance had a tremendous impact on my development as a musician.  It really spurred my interest in attempting to conduct myself.”  He paused again and shook his head, smiling at the memory.  “My mother couldn’t get me to shut up about it.  I think I even requested a Valery poster for Christmas,” he chuckled.  “Gergiev, right next to the Arctic Monkeys on my wall.”  There was more gentle laughter, and Harry smiled out at them again.  “More importantly though,” he went on, “before we begin, I wanted to make sure to express how fully aware I am of how massive the shoes I’m filling are, and how great the honor of being given this post is, even temporarily.  I could not be more excited about this opportunity.  So thank you, again, for having me.”

The orchestra broke out into a round of thunderous applause once again.  This time Harry had to fight the urge to turn his head all the way to the left, suddenly and absolutely desperate to look at Louis Tomlinson, consumed with a desire to know if his applause was as indifferent and tepid as he imagined.  If his blue eyes were cool and skeptical.  He held out as long as he could, but the impulse to see was just too strong, and his eyes flicked over almost against his will.

Harry set his jaw at what he saw there, heat flooding into his cheeks.  There was a challenge in Louis’s eyes, obstinate and almost taunting.  Harry turned back to the orchestra, galvanized, his heart beating fast. _Just you wait, Tomlinson,_ he thought. _Just you wait._  Whatever Louis Tomlinson had in store for him, Harry was ready this time.  More than ready. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and opening quote from an English translation of Habanera from Bizet's Carmen.
> 
> Louis is practicing Violin Concerto No. 4 by Mozart.
> 
> Here's the [Lullaby](http://grooveshark.com/#!/search/song?q=Tbilisi+Symphony+Orchestra+and+Jansug+Kakhidze+Amazons+Ballet+Suite%3A+XII.+Lullaby%3A+Adagio) from the Amazons Ballet Suite, which is really pretty.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Don Juan._  I can’t fucking believe it.”

Zayn shrugged, cradling a cup of coffee between his gloved hands as though it were his own beating heart.  He and Louis were shivering in the dead garden outside St. Luke’s, Zayn in order to smoke and Louis in order to bitch.

“It’s a difficult piece.  Not for timpani, particularly, but...”

“It’s a crowd-pleaser,” Louis corrected, toeing at the brown remains of a daylily.  “All flash, no substance.  He’s choosing it so he can show off to the community on the back of _our_ skill.  It’s basically infuriating.  I am infuriated.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows, before doubling up on a drag from his ashing cigarette and a sip of caffeine.  “Maybe he just likes it.”

“Maybe he’s Batman.  That’s not the point.”

The sun was beginning to sink already, casting weak shades of red and pink over the stubborn set of Louis’s jaw.  Zayn just shook his head and chuckled lowly.  “So what is your point, Tomlinson?”

“Only that it’s such a horrifically transparent money grab.  A hot up-and-coming conductor gets his big break, chooses the most difficult piece he can think of for his first major performance and as long as he doesn’t completely bomb, all the idiotic donors -- you know, Malik, the ones who gush over young, handsome and tuxedoed and who think the most impressive thing in the world is a bunch of violinists moving their fingers really fast -- well, they just open their pockets,” Louis snapped, “like _that._  I guarantee you he only cares about bringing in the cash.  He knows that’s Grimshaw’s bottom line.”

Zayn mused on this a few moments, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his ceramic mug.  “Maybe,” he conceded.  “He is quite good with publicity and that.  Very charming.”

“Valery cared about the music,” Louis huffed, snagging the butt of Zayn’s smoke and taking an indignant drag before flicking it away.  “Valery was an _artist._  Couldn’t give less of a fuck about all the fundraising and promotional bullshit.”

“Babe, all the fundraising and promotional bullshit is why we get to have an orchestra in the first place.”

Louis rolled his eyes and poked Zayn in the shoulder.  “Hey.  I would play on a street corner if I felt I would have more artistic integrity there than here.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows skeptically, but didn’t say anything.

“Well, maybe not the street corner,” Louis conceded.  “I’d go in a tube station where it’s warm.”

“Shit acoustics, though.”

Louis shrugged.  “I could use it.  Do something atmospheric, you know?   _Ballade_ by Ysaÿe.  That would sound great in the tube.”

“Well,” Zayn sighed, pushing off the crumbling stone wall and tramping through a clump of dead annuals, “I’m glad Styles is here, personally, if it means I’m less likely to get cornered by Mrs. Fancington-Arsepicker-Smythe of the Lesser Smythes at a charity event or summat.”

Louis smirked.  Zayn was strikingly handsome, with model good looks and the sort of black eyes that seemed to contain oceans of Philosophy and Danger and Sexual Experience.  He was, like Louis, a perennial favorite of the rich old orchestra widows (and adult daughters thereof).  Unlike Louis, who enjoyed basking in all the attention, he just wanted to be left alone.

“Whatever.  Doesn’t change the fact that _Don Juan_ is cheesy as hell.”

Zayn bothered to flip Louis the bird as he stomped away through the frost.  Louis counted it as a successful conversation.  He gathered himself mentally before turning to reenter the building.  Rehearsal was over for the day -- it had been short; there wasn’t much to rehearse yet, and everyone was still adjusting to the change in conductors -- but Louis still planned to put in at least two hours of solid practice before pissing off to the pub with Niall for their weekly darts and drafts.  He wanted to get a head start on _Don Juan._

It had been his audition piece for the LSO, a bit of a classic audition piece, really, hellish fingerings and such a fast tempo.  No doubt _Don Juan_ tests technique.  As Louis tucked his chin and thudded down the stairs to the maze of basement practice rooms under the church, he remembered the day.  Warming up in the ‘shark tank,’ all the other violinists attacking the same piece, each one louder, brighter, more brilliant than the next.  It was almost enough to make him doubt himself.  But in the end Louis had closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that he had put in the _most_ time, the _most_ effort, the _most_ concentration.  He’d killed it.

“I can kill it again,” he muttered, unaware he was talking out loud to the empty hallway.  If Styles was testing him, he’d make sure he was up to it.

“Mr. Tomlinson!”  A chipper voice caught him with his hand on the doorknob of the practice room.  It was Liam Pine (or was it Payne?  Puce?), that Development lackey who always seemed to be dogging Grimshaw’s heels, usually mid-apology.

“Hello.”

“You’ve a meeting with the Mae -- er, with Har -- ”  Liam coughed.  “Mr. Styles has requested your presence in his office tomorrow at eight.  A.M., obviously.  For a section leader meeting.”  He held out a very official-looking memo at arm’s length.

“No thanks,” Louis said as he waved it away.  “I can remember.”  He slipped through the door and closed it behind him, not sparing Liam a second glance.

“It’s also in your Outlook!” he heard Liam shout from the hallway, soundproofing not quite sufficient to avoid bureaucracy.  Louis cringed, and turned around.  He pasted on a fake grin and a thumbs up, which Liam enthusiastically returned through the narrow pane of glass before finally buggering off.

 _Probably wants to tell me how to coach my section through his_ daringly _difficult program._  Louis snorted.  “I’ll come prepared…”

Then the sheet music was open before him and his fingers were flying.  His mind was locked away, safe in a place without words, where there was only sound.

*

It was late evening when Louis stepped out of the practice room, locking it behind him.  He hated leaving his violin -- it almost felt like he was chopping off and leaving a limb -- but he wouldn’t be practicing again before tomorrow morning anyway, and he always felt nervous with it on the Underground.

“Bye, Thunder,” he whispered as he drew his key out of the lock and tested the handle.  He’d deny it up, down and sideways if anyone asked, but Louis named all his instruments.  They were his children, really.  Or maybe his superheroes.  Well, they were his baby superheroes, and this one had been named for its rolling, resonant tone.  Thunder cost far more than Louis himself could ever afford, but in the classical music world, with its rich patrons and general sense of artistic propriety, great instruments seemed to inevitably make their way into the hands of great players.  In fact, Thunder had been willed to Louis by his old teacher and mentor, Leonardo Hall, one of the major violinists of the last century.

It had been Leonardo who had encouraged Louis to start composing.   _Not that I’ve lived up to his expectations in that arena,_ Louis thought glumly, as he drew on his coat and left the courtyard behind, turning west on Old Street toward one of the legion of dingy pubs Niall preferred to frequent after work.  (He was always slinking off for pints, looking like a poor uni student in his broken Ray-Bans and dirty snapback, and Louis wondered if any of his pub friends even knew what he did for a living.)

Louis shuddered with the wind, and the memory of Harry’s fingers dancing as he stood in _my composing room reading my work._  The image backed up on him like bile in his throat.  He wondered how long Harry had looked at the simple minuet, what he’d seen in the notes.  “It was just an exercise,” Louis grumbled to himself.  He hadn’t meant for anybody to…  Louis sighed and pushed it all away, Harry’s face, his long body leaning against the desk and just everything, everything about him.  Gone.  Non-existent.  He absolutely refused to be embarrassed over the incident.

Louis brushed a slight dusting of dry snow off the shoulders of his black wool coat, flicking his fringe to the side as he checked the pub sign.  The Farringdon Arms, small and smoky-looking, another one of Niall’s “hidden gems,” no doubt.  There was a man on the stoop hugging an old mandolin to his body, swaying drunkenly back and forth and singing rude limericks.

"I once knew a woman named Red  
Who invited a butcher to bed  
But she said at a glance  
As he took off his pants  
'I’ll take a salami instead!'"

“‘S one of my original compositions,” the man slurred, grinning up at Louis and nodding his scruffy chin.

“Best song I’ve ever heard,” Louis smiled, and flipped him a pound.  Then he steeled himself, wrinkling his nose against the smell of beer and stale smoke before pushing in through the heavy door.

The pub was dark, and fairly full for a Monday night.  Louis slipped past the crowded bar toward a tattered pair of dart boards hanging on the wall.  He saw a familiar crop of bleached hair leaning back on a barstool, talking with animated force to a stately older woman.  Gladys Howard, the first chair French horn.  Louis just smiled and rolled his eyes as he strode toward them -- Niall was the sort of person who would invite anyone out for a friendly drink, even a seventy-year-old who perpetually smelled of powdery foundation and Shalimar.

“Wey hey!  The Tommo!”  Niall was already well into a pint.  “I was just tellin’ Gladys about the time we mooned the London Philharmonic.”

“Ms. Howard,” Louis smiled, extending his hand in greeting.  “Lovely to see you here; whatever Niall has told you is a lie.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tomlinson,” she replied.  She pressed the tips of her red-lacquered fingers into Louis’s palm, looking surprisingly at home in her seedy surroundings.  “I promise to drink enough that I’ll forget anything incriminating.”  She winked slyly in Niall’s direction, and nodded back to Louis.  “What’s his bum like, then?”

“Oh,” Niall said gravely, hunching over the remains of his pint. “It’s heaven.”

“It’s true,” Louis shrugged.  He was rather proud of his backside, and how it looked in tight trousers.  Definitely above average.

“I’ll admit to being tempted to give it a little pinch now and then,” Gladys chuckled.

“Might let you,” Louis said, pursing his lips and hollowing out his cheeks thoughtfully.  “Depends on how many cocktails you buy me.”

“Noted.”  Gladys let a hint of wickedness light her heavily-lined eyes as she added, “You know, my poor dead husband was flat as a board behind.  Just like Mr. Horan.”

Niall snorted into his smudgy pint glass.  “Yer a bastard, Gladys.”

Louis laughed as he removed his coat and sat down at their table.  There was another jacket draped over the stool opposite and an unfinished amber; he wondered who else Niall had invited.  “We’ve got even teams for darts, then?”

“Right, I forgot to mention…”

Harry Styles chose that moment to stumble out of the loo, flicking water off his hands as he made his way awkwardly back to their table.

“Oh,” said Louis, flatly.

“Mr. Tomlinson.”  Harry was taller than he seemed at first, towering over Louis in the dark pub.  Louis couldn’t help noticing the way his hipster skinny jeans clung to his thighs, dress shirt open at the neck to reveal the hint of a collarbone tattoo.   _So young and so cool,_ Louis thought with a sneer, _but you’re all surface, aren’t you, Don Juan?_

Louis raised his eyebrows.  “That’s my name.  Well done.”

Harry barked one of his annoyingly non sequitur laughs as he edged his bum onto the barstool; he was tipsy already, from only half a beer.  “We have a meeting tomorrow…”

“That Liam bloke told me about it.”

“It’s scheduled and everything.  It’s in your Outlook.”

Louis sighed.  “Apparently so.”

They both looked away, and Louis left after a few uncomfortable moments to go grab himself a Tom Collins from the bar.  He didn’t want to see the loaded glances Niall and Gladys were probably shooting each other -- stand partners are always thick as thieves.  The memory of Harry’s eyes as they read his composition on the smudgy chalkboard came back to him again, just a discordant flash before he stuffed it down.   _No, no, ignoring, wrong; there’s nothing._  He smiled tightly at the bartender as he accepted his drink and made his way back to the table.

Harry was in the middle of some story, and seemed to be getting through it as slowly as he possibly could.  “... a very large man, quite scary-looking, came out of the back of the truck, and said,” his voice dropped to an even lower octave, _“'What are you up to, boys?_ _'_ And we all shook our heads, ‘oh, nothing, sir.  Nothing.’  Except Josh, who said, ‘I’ll give you back your doughnut if you can guess my middle name.’”

Louis sat down, sighing audibly.  This little anecdote was clearly going nowhere.  Harry paused for a moment, stuttering and swallowing.  “Um, and the rest of us just wanted to run away.  But Josh said, ‘Go on, guess.  It’s four syllables and it starts with an M.’”

 _This is the legendary Harry Styles charm?_  Louis continued to look across the table, highly skeptical, and wondered if he was imagining things when he saw the barest hint of a flush creep up Harry’s neck.

“D’you know what the very large man guessed?” Harry asked.

Gladys and Niall shook their heads, and Louis swallowed another bored sigh.

Harry’s stupid face spread into a wide grin.  “Mammary gland!”

Niall cackled with laughter, bending over his drink, Irish countenance red with alcohol and mirth.  “Mammary gland,” he repeated, chuckling.  Gladys had a hand over her mouth, reflexively hiding her smile.

“So?” Louis asked, his words coming out clipped and a little rushed.  “What was his real middle name then?”

“Meriwether, I think.  But that’s not the --”

“Oh, you thought that story had a point?”

Harry’s face fell and Louis got a sudden, unexpected swoop of remorse through his gut.  He ignored it, just lowered his head and calmly took a sip of his cocktail.  Why should he care about Harry Styles’s opinion of him? _He can’t tell a stupid little story about a truck driver and a stolen doughnut and some weird posh friend of his; how is he going to last a week trying to lead a symphony orchestra?  Stories, that’s what music is.  The greatest stories that exist._

“Lou,” Niall whispered under his breath.  “Be nice.”

“What?” he answered, lowly.

Harry cleared his throat, coughed once into a closed fist.  “D’you…  Should we play some darts, then?”

They all got up, chairs scraping over the loud classic rock that had just begun to blast from the jukebox.  Louis stood to the side while Niall paid the bartender for four sets of darts, downing the dregs of his Tom Collins and idly watching Harry chat to Gladys about something.  The goofy grin was pasted back on his face, big green eyes full of light under a sideswept fringe of chocolate curls and wide, full lips…  Well, Louis shrugged, maybe that’s where the charmer reputation came from.  It really was stupid, his hair.  Curly hair’s for five year old girls, not grown men.   _And his feet are too big._

Louis found himself staring at Harry’s scuffed, slightly pigeon-toed suede boots when Niall came up behind him and slapped three darts into his hand.  “You get the pink ones,” he announced, loudly.

“You say that as if there’s something inferior about the color pink,” Louis responded imperiously, setting his empty glass down on the table and moving to take his first turn.  “Is it because it’s a lady color?  Awful.  Gladys, you’re with me; I’ll not be on a team with a male chauvinist.”

Harry was looking at him sort of strangely, but Louis brushed it off and hit the double twenty with his first dart.  It didn’t turn into much of a game.  Louis and Gladys crushed the other team in a matter of ten minutes, Harry fumbling about and only hitting the board as often as he missed it -- oddly uncoordinated for someone proficient in the precise bowing strokes and fingerings necessary to play a stringed instrument.  Niall was having so much fun, he barely noticed when Louis made an excuse to leave after Harry nearly impaled the bartender with his final dart of the round.

“Thank God that’s over,” he muttered to himself as he wrapped his coat around his torso and stepped outside into the fresh air.  The sky was long dark, and a light layer of snow had settled on the sidewalk.  Louis walked briskly to the nearest tube station, trying to make sense of the evening.  There was just something about Harry that _bothered_ him.  The way he seemed to skate through life without having to deal with much professional criticism because everybody loves a prodigy -- especially good-looking ones who bring in money.  The way he poured himself into his tight jeans, too cool to dress professionally, “edgy” and full of fake depth.  The way Louis couldn’t even hate him for acting like a cocky bullshitter, because despite Louis’s expectations of him, that wasn’t exactly how he came off.  Louis wasn’t quite sure _how_ Harry came off.  In some moments, he’d actually seemed uncertain.  Well, maybe Don Juan did possess a modicum of self-awareness.

Louis nearly missed his stop.  He had to dart up and shove through the crowded car to get to the doors, and only let out a foggy puff of breath when he was standing on the sidewalk.  He trudged the short distance to his flat -- which was more like a little house, really, its flaking green door sandwiched in between others on the narrow street -- and keyed himself in.

The flat was cold and dark, perpetually stale-smelling because menial tasks like cleaning simply cannot be too high on an artist’s list of priorities, and Louis only ever came back here to sleep, anyway.  In his more fanciful moments, he liked to imagine a family of ghosts making itself at home in his unused living room.  He trudged up the threadbare stair runner without switching on the light (no point), reached the landing, fumbled with a small brass knob and opened the door to his bedroom.  Rumpled sheets were bathed in the blue glow of his computer screen -- must have forgotten to turn it off this morning.  He shrugged off his coat and sat down in front of the keyboard, idly bringing up a web browser while debating whether or not to give Liam Payne the satisfaction of actually checking his Outlook.

In the end he couldn’t bring himself to click.  Besides, he’d remember about the Styles thing.  The meeting.  Not like he’d forget that.

Louis sighed heavily, already certain what he was about to do -- something he hadn’t exactly _avoided_ doing all these years, just never allowed himself to consider as a possible activity.  He sighed again for good measure, almost turning it into a melodramatic groan even though there was no one else to hear.

“Someone’s got to entertain the ghosts,” he muttered.  Then he typed Harry Styles’s name into a search bar and pressed Enter.

The first result was a link to his Wikipedia page.  Louis decided that was a good place to start, clicked on the hyperlink and was filled with immediate regret when he saw that Harry’s page was _long,_ featuring several recent pictures of him and actual subheadings.  Including one for Personal Life.  (Louis Tomlinson existed on Wikipedia only as a “music-related stub.”)

Louis skimmed over the basics.  “Harry Edward Styles, born _blah blah blah_ way too recently, is an English cellist and conductor.  Parents Anne Cox and somebody Styles, older sister Gemma, showed early promise, studied cello at a stuffy conservatory in Austria whatever, boring, boring…”  Louis had been vaguely aware of Harry’s tenure at the Berlin Philharmonic as a featured performer -- and all of the highly successful solo albums with horrible cheesy names he’d released in his early twenties (“Midnight Memories?” Louis snorted.  “Please tell me that was the label’s idea.  Though it fairly smacks of Styles sensibility.  As far as I’m concerned he and Josh Groban can have a cute curly hair club and leave me out of it, thank you very much.”) -- so he skipped over that section to read about Harry’s work as a conductor.  There were links to a lot of enthusiastic reviews of his guest stint with the Boston Pops, which made Louis roll his eyes almost out of his head.  The Chicago Symphony Orchestra he had to take more seriously, unfortunately.  And the Los Angeles Philharmonic, where he’d spent the whole of the last year.

“No wonder he’s such a dirty California hippie.”

A warm ball of frustration began to form in Louis’s chest as he read down Harry’s list of accomplishments, dotted with pictures of his dimple-y smile and his big paw-like hands awkwardly holding a baton.  “How do they not see how utterly _vapid_ he is?” Louis growled.  “He’s just a flashy nothing!”

Louis imagined the ghosts were sympathizing with him.

“Well,” he continued, conversationally, “I blame America’s obsession with English accents.”

He actually pretended to have a debate with himself about whether he was going to look at the Personal Life section.  But it was relatively short, just a note about Harry’s vocal support of LGBT rights and his work with a UK charity called Believe in Magic.  No juicy relationship details.

“Annoyingly boring.  Obviously.”

Louis considered shutting down his laptop and going to bed, but the next search result under Wikipedia had been to an Esquire article, and no way was Louis going to pass up making fun of that.  Just the first sentence alone made him crow with laughter:

_It’s a warm afternoon in late spring, and Harry Styles is Instagramming sushi._

“Oh do go on,” Louis intoned as he buried himself in the ridiculous, lionizing prose.  Nothing like a “the subject of this piece is so much cooler than you, you should be grateful for the privilege to pay us for the pleasure of reading about him” magazine article for a good hate-read.

_Picture a symphony orchestra conductor -- got it?  Some old, wrinkled man with flyaway white hair and a crooked bowtie?  Now throw that mental image away, because Harry Styles is shattering popular conceptions about classical music while taking the city of Los Angeles by storm.  David and Victoria Beckham, Charlize Theron, Robbie Williams, and Kelis were all seen front row recently -- not at a Lakers game but at the finale performance of the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s spring season this past Sunday at the Walt Disney Concert Hall._

Louis groaned and snorted his way through the piece, while lapping up every word about Harry’s outfit, his $1800 headscarves and his friendships with various fashion designers.  “Fucking ridiculous.  He’s a fucking joke.”  By the time he got to the final sentence ( _Face it -- Harry Styles has made Mozart cool again._ ), Louis was slumped in his chair, gently yet theatrically banging his head on his desk.

“Please just kill me.”

There was another link under the article: _Harry Styles, photographed by Annie Leibovitz -- SEE THE SLIDESHOW!_ that Louis clicked on without much thought.

At which point he was confronted by a naked Harry Styles.

“Holy --”  Louis minimized the browser window and took a deep, shaky breath.  “What the…  tattoos...”  There had been some mention of tattoos in the article, of course, but Louis had just rolled his eyes and muttered, “as if no other classical musician has ever had a tat.”  He’d gotten one years before, a tasteful violin bow down the back of his upper right arm.  Not to mention Zayn’s extensive collection.

But somehow the thought of Harry Styles with tattoos was not the same as _seeing Harry Styles_ with _tattoos._  He certainly wasn’t the same pudgy 15-year-old from that summer at Interlochen.  Not anymore.

Louis couldn’t help it.  He maximized the browser window and stared.  Harry was standing on what looked like the side of a desert road, torso liberally smudged with dust and a serious expression on his face.  He was holding his cello in front of him, tilted slightly to the side to reveal a thin line of hair trailing down from his belly button.  Louis’s eyes flicked over the contours of Harry’s body, the shape of his well-developed muscles.  Gone was the smooth white skin and baby fat.  All that remained of that Harry Styles was the mirage of love handles on both sides of his hips -- Louis could tell they were sort of an optical illusion, but the shape of them seemed familiar and oddly erotic.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out memories of Harry Styles following him around the woodchip paths at camp, Harry Styles eagerly smiling up at him.  Harry Styles flustered and embarrassed and jumping into the lake, hoping nobody had noticed his accidental erection even though of course they all had...

Louis opened his eyes again.  He clicked over to the next picture.  Tattoos littered Harry’s upper arms and ribcage, a random collection of black and grey designs.

“Fuck.”

He could feel himself beginning to swell in his pants as he clicked through the gallery, self-indulgently allowing his gaze to linger on the shape of Harry’s thighs, his dark nipples, the muscle in his right arm as he bent naked over his cello.  The thought of Harry Styles bending over in general was one Louis had been trying all day not to let into his head.  Now that his cock was filling up, he found it seriously difficult to maintain any level of mental control.  Frustrated, Louis snapped his laptop shut, shimmied out of his trousers and shirt (ignoring how the brief friction of undressing only served to inflame the situation in his pants) and climbed into the fluffy warmth of his duvet to go to sleep.

He hadn’t found the time to masturbate in a while, that was all.  This was just a natural, animal reaction to seeing a mostly naked man... _any_ mostly naked man would have produced the same result.  Louis’s cock was throbbing, head straining under the waistband of his boxer briefs.  He resisted the urge to reach down and wank, still half in denial.  (How many tugs would it take, just thinking about that first picture?  Two?)

“God damn Harry Styles,” he breathed, trying to ignore the sudden rush of heat and need through his groin.  “No.”  He turned over onto his side, refusing to touch himself.

The Esquire images floated through his head, mixed with a suddenly vivid memory of fifteen-year-old Harry, obvious hard-on bobbing in his swim trunks.  Oh, Louis was _not_ going to think about that.  Not going to think about the shape of a teenager’s penis; it was too confusing and awful, and he was just going to go to sleep.

“Sleep,” he ordered his brain through gritted teeth.

It took a while.

*

Louis woke before dawn to his phone alarm.  He rubbed his face groggily, blinking at the dark window and trying to figure out why it was still nighttime.  Then it came back to him through fleeting visions of muddled dreams -- he had that appointment with Styles.  Obviously Louis couldn’t afford to take any time away from his practice schedule, so that meant getting to St. Luke’s even earlier than usual.  Plus, there were some compositions he’d stashed away in what _had_ been his secret composing lair but was now apparently Harry’s new office.  Better to retrieve them before Styles decided to go poking around the file cabinets.

He quickly dressed, not paying much attention to his outfit.   _We can’t all afford $1800 headscarves._  He ended up in some corduroys that were slightly worn, and also slightly too short (How long had it been since he’d last bought new clothes?  Since his mother had come to visit, probably.), garish purple socks and some sweater or other over a collared shirt.  His glasses.  Louis brushed a disinterested hand through his fringe, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  He may have been young and hot recently, but he was beginning to realize that those days were just past him.  Now he was only some middle-aged violinist hoping for an album deal that would never come, fading into the background of an orchestra.

“Chin up, Tomlinson.  You’ve still got your health.  And your artistic sensibilities, which have yet to be corrupted by pop music, desirable footballers, Instagram, or any fashion designers.  Who may or may not be the wives of the desirable footballers.  Or sushi.”

Louis left the house feeling superior.  He got his coffee in the station and rode the nearly empty Underground to Barbican.  It was bitterly cold; he wrapped his red knit scarf around him and put his head down into the wind.

His first priority upon letting himself into St. Luke’s was to check on Thunder.  He was where Louis had left him, snug in his case, and Louis could breathe a sigh of relief.  He always felt just a bit tense when he didn’t have his violin at his side.  Louis passed a block of amber rosin over his bow reverently.  It was the same rosin he’d had as a teenager -- God, probably the same rosin he’d taken to Interlochen -- and over a decade later it was just beginning to run low.

Some people might think it weird to get emotional over rosin.  To Louis, it was the voice of his instrument.  It coated the horsehair on his bow, gripped Thunder’s strings and allowed him to speak.  And the dwindling cake in its blue silk wrapper was as familiar to him as an old friend.

“Just a few scales to warm up my fingers.”  A few scales turned into a few more, and soon Louis was lost in the only world he ever wanted to be in, the world he was addicted to.  He practiced the hardest runs in _Don Juan,_ ironing out slight hiccups in his fingerings.  Thunder’s voice was soaring, muffled by the walls of the practice room, and Louis was smiling softly, unconsciously.  By the time he came back to himself, he realized he had just fifteen minutes or so left before the meeting to sneak into Harry’s office and find his rough drafts.

“Shit,” he muttered, hurriedly putting Thunder back in his case before leaving his practice room and taking the stairs two at a time.  Hopefully Styles wouldn’t be in early.

But Louis could hear raised voices coming from around the corner.  The door to Harry’s cramped office was slightly open.  Louis didn’t _mean_ to eavesdrop, but…  Well, if there was going to be an argument between Nicholas Grimshaw, Managing Director, and Harry Styles, Interim Conductor, he wanted to know who was going to come out on top.  For the good of the orchestra.  It’s what any first-rate concertmaster would do, he told himself.

“Liam revised the schedule at my request,” Grimshaw was saying.  “We wanted to do a massive promotional push, sell you as the new, fresh face of the LSO.”  Louis rolled his eyes, hiding around the corner in the dark little hallway near the stairwell.   _I knew it.  Everything always comes down to money._

“I’ll be honest,” Harry replied, “Photoshoot, photoshoot, benefit appearance…  It doesn’t leave much time for me to actually rehearse with them.”

“We have very competent assistant conductors for that sort of thing,” Grimshaw said.  Louis could almost see the unconcerned flick of his wrist, and snorted softly.  Valery would never allow an assistant conductor to run a whole rehearsal.  They were only supposed to take over when the lead conductor was off practicing with individual sections.

“I’m afraid I don’t work like that,” Harry said, in a kinder tone than Louis would probably have used in the same situation.  Somehow it only made Louis more annoyed with him.

“And I’m afraid this schedule has been finalized.”

“Finalize it again.”  Louis raised his eyebrows.  Not too many people had the backbone to stand up to Grimshaw when he had ice in his voice; he wouldn’t have thought Harry capable of it.  A moment passed, and he heard that same pointless laugh he’d apparently have to start getting used to.  “Oh, Nick, come on.  You didn’t hire me just for my pretty face, did you?”

 _There’s the charm, finally,_ Louis thought, lips pursed into a frown.   _He knows what Grimshaw’s up to._

“Mr. Styles, of course I respect your judgement…”

“Good,” said Harry, a touch too brightly.  “It’s settled then.”

“Another thing…”  Grimshaw cleared his throat.  “We -- some members of the board of directors and I -- were wondering if you were quite married to the choice of _Don Juan._  Not that we don’t love Strauss, but it’s usually used as an audition piece.  It’s become a sort of tool in the community, you understand, used to assess technical skill.  Not, perhaps…  oh, how do I put this?  It doesn’t quite have the level of gravity our patrons are accustomed to hearing in a season-opener.”

“I thought you said you wanted fresh?”

“Fresh, yes, but not completely unorthodox.”

Harry sighed, setting something heavy down on his desk.  His voice was soft, and Louis leaned in to listen.  “Look, Mr. Grimshaw.  Ever since I decided to try my hand at conducting, I’ve wanted to do _Don Juan._  It’s a beautiful piece, but its soul has gotten lost.”  

Louis shifted his weight, neck getting stiff where he was pressing it to the wall.   _Well, okay,_  he thought. _That was unexpected._   Harry paused and Louis wondered if he was staring off into the distance, same focused look on his face as when he’d been reading Louis’s music off the chalkboard.

“Interesting, Harry, but why didn’t you perform it in Chicago or L.A.?  American audiences --”

“Oh, I couldn’t.   _Don Juan_ wasn’t right for them, because it requires a uniquely strong, independent, technically flawless first violinist.  Someone who can really lead the section.”

“Granted, but --”

“That’s the reason I took this offer, Nick.  To finally give _Don Juan_ the reconsideration it deserves.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure the LSO is really right for --”

“You have Tomlinson.”

Louis nearly choked, pressing his back into the cool tile as he tried not to breathe too loudly.  Harry had been following his career?  He was here because of _him?_ (Is it possible to be flattered and utterly infuriated at the same time?)

“Well…”  Grimshaw cleared his throat.  “Whatever you think is best, Mr. Styles.  It’s your decision.”  He swept out of the office and Louis tensed, afraid he’d be caught.  But Grimshaw turned left.  When Louis heard his footsteps fading down the hallway, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.  He checked his watch -- three minutes until his meeting with Harry.

Not much a person can usefully do in three minutes.  So Louis straightened his sweater and presented himself at the open door, head still whirling with new information.  Harry was bent over his desk, fussily straightening stacks of sheet music.  Louis let his eyes wander up the long legs and pert bum as some of the more revealing pictures from the Esquire spread floated through the chaos in his mind.

“You think _Don Juan_ has a soul?”

Harry coughed, and whipped his head around.  “You were listening.”

“Eavesdropping.”

“... Is that better?”

Louis shrugged and seated himself in Harry’s creaky office chair, absently teasing some loose foam through a rip in the vinyl.  “No,” he said, lightly, “but it’s more accurate.”  He wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into with this conversation, but his research the night before and all those intricate runs he’d just been practicing had put him in a weirdly reckless mood.  There was something tugging on the bottom of his stomach, an inexplicable desire to fluster Harry, to turn him back into the embarrassed fifteen-year-old at camp.  To punish him for daring to invade Louis’s space.

“Louis Accuracy Tomlinson.”

Louis blinked.  “What?”

“Because your technique, and you just said, so…  Accuracy is your middle name?”  Harry grinned hopefully.

“Oh, God.”  Louis huffed.  “Please, Styles, spare us any more of your middle name-based humor.”  Harry burst out into a surprised laugh, as though Louis had just said something funny instead of something mean.

Then he settled himself on the edge of his desk, legs crossed at the ankles and wrists cocked against the wood as he supported his lean frame.  He smiled down at Louis.  “So are you secretly in love with me then, or just doing some light stalking?”

Louis rolled his eyes, frustration flaring up.  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, lacing his hands together and peering up narrowly at Harry.  “Apparently you’re the one stalking _me,_ Styles.  Or did I mishear something?”

Harry shrugged.  “I needed a violinist who could deliver technically.  Someone with leadership skills.  You’re at the top of the list.”

“Mmm.”  Louis let his torso fall back, making the chair creak as he ran the tip of his callused forefinger over the sharp, jagged edge of the ripped vinyl, anger burning as he willed himself to forget how aroused he’d been the night before.  Now that the moment had passed, the memory of it was humiliating.  Like Harry’s whole existence was mocking him, right down to his pathetic, nonexistent sex life.  “What’s this meeting about, then?”

“Well, mainly a bit of a buck-up.  I’m sure if Grimshaw disapproves of _Don Juan,_ everybody’s been grumbling behind my back.”  

Louis nodded.  “They have been.”  He wasn’t going to deny it.

Harry brought a hand up to his chin, rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip as he continued, getting that fixated look on his face as he stared at a point above Louis’s head.   “I just want the chance to explain myself fully to the orchestra.”  He spoke slowly, as though his words were rising from a great depth.  “I feel like I’ve had this idea in my head forever, secret from the world, totally private.  It’s so well-developed in there.  So easy to describe to myself.”  Louis glanced down to see him twisting his toes inward, vulnerably.  “And now that I finally have the chance to tell other people about it, to bring it out into the real world, I forget that part of the foundation of it is so _personal…”_  He glanced at Louis, intense eyebrows knitted together.  “It’s just nerve-wracking.  Do you know what I mean?”

Louis’s eyes flitted to the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, where he'd stowed the drafts of his compositions.  He swallowed, aware of a sudden roughness in his throat.  “Nope.  Afraid you’re speaking gibberish, Styles.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully.  “Okay.  I don’t suppose I have to give you any pointers about the actual…”  He made a dorky violin playing motion, posture and wrist comically wrong.

“No.  You don’t.”  Louis stood and strode out of the room, only slightly more on edge than when he’d entered.

*

Zayn listened, tilting his chin up to blow hot smoke at the ravens circling overhead.

“So it’s somehow my fault that we have to play _Don Juan._  I swear, Harry Styles is like my own personal nightmare come to life.”

“You should be flattered, mate.”

Louis growled low in his throat, stamping at the frozen garden soil and shivering.  More than the threat of him, Harry’s unexpectedness in all areas only made Louis angrier.  “I feel like he’s fucking _using_ me.  Like I’m this technical automaton that he can employ to fulfill his stupid creative dream.  And of course he has to swoop in and add his _advanced artistry_ onto to me make me good enough.”

Zayn glanced at Louis, skepticism written on his face.  “Sure you’re not projecting?  That sounds like J--…  That doesn’t sound right.”

“Oh, he basically told Grimshaw that.  And when he talked to me, he made it clear that it’s my _technique_ and his fucking… _personal vision..._  Gimme that.”  Louis plucked the cigarette out of Zayn’s mouth and took a deep drag, feeling the nicotine seep into his blood and calm his nerves.  “He’s a fucking arsehole.”

Zayn shrugged.  “If you say so.”

Niall popped by Harry’s office at the Barbican before rehearsal on Friday.  Harry had spent the morning hunched over _Don Juan,_ wishing he were at St. Luke’s instead.  This office was all smooth, expensive-looking wood surfaces and floor-to-ceiling glass.  It was much more difficult for Harry to comfortably stare off into space while thinking over a problem when anyone who happened to be walking around the second floor mezzanine could see in.  He was actively muttering to himself about the lack of privacy and making notes for the wind sections, his shoulders tense, when he looked up to see Niall leaning in the open doorway.  Arms crossed over his chest, feet hooked at the ankles, he was smirking and faux-casually waiting for Harry to notice his presence.

Harry rocked back in his chair, laughing and shaking his head, glad for the distraction.  Glad it was Niall.

“What?” Niall asked, smirk turning into a smile.

Harry snorted.  “Nothing,” he said, “just hits me sometimes, how ridiculous a person you really are.”

Niall dropped his chin to his chest, laughing silently along with Harry in tacit agreement.

“Let me guess,” Harry said, rubbing his hands over his face as he continued to laugh, “if it’d taken me much longer to see you standing there, you’d’ve knocked on the door frame and been like _‘Yoo-hooooo,_ anybody home?’ am I right?”

Niall cackled and pushed off the door jamb, coming fully into the office.  His eyes were squinty with amusement.

“Wrong,” he announced gleefully.  He dropped down into one of the chairs across from Harry with a soft _fwup_ and cozied into a slouch.  “Was gonna go with ‘Earth to Harry,’ actually.”  He straightened out the front his jumper and shrugged, fairly pleased with himself.  “It‘s classic.”

Harry scrunched up his eyes and made a face like he was thinking it over.  “‘Yoo-hoo, Earth to Harry’ would’ve been even better.”

“You can keep your yoo-hoos to yourself, thanks," Niall said with a look of mild distaste.

Harry was unable to keep from giggling.  “Oh I can, can I?” he asked, with a suggestive little eyebrow raise.

Niall hooted, bug-eyed.  “I’m the ridiculous one?” he scoffed.  He swiveled his head from side to side in disbelief, almost like he was looking for someone else to back him up.  He was clearly delighted that Harry had played into his hands.

“Heyyyy, It’s not my fault!” Harry said.  “Sounded like a euphemism.”

“You have the mentality of a five-year-old, you know that?”

“How’s it feel, having a five-year-old for a boss?”

“Wonderful.  I absolutely adore it,” Niall said, not missing a beat.  “I’ll take some animal crackers, please, bossman. Where’s your stash, then?”  He leaned forward and craned his neck, looking behind Harry at the row of cabinets beneath the large window.

Harry made a face of apology.  “Fresh out, sorry.  Stressful morning.  Anything else I can do for you, though?”  

Niall collapsed against the back of his chair, laughing.  He sighed contentedly and responded in earnest, "Nah. Just wanted t’ check in on ya, really."  He drummed his fingers on his narrow metal armrests, shrugging, his eyes warm.  "You know, like the A-plus best mate that I am.  Ask you how's things so far and all that.  Make sure you’re settling in okay."

“It’s been all right," Harry said, with a small smile.  He leaned back in his chair again, sighing and looking up at the ceiling tiles for a moment.  Everything felt a little better now, just interacting with Niall.  Harry loved him a lot.  “Things are all right…  They’re good.  Yeah.  They’re good.”

“Grimmy bein’ a pain in the arse?”

Harry gave an appreciative bark of laughter.  “Nothing I can’t handle.”  He scrubbed a hand through his hair and then sat up, leveling his gaze at Niall, hoping he his eyes didn’t look too vulnerable.  “How do you think it’s going?” he asked.

Niall smiled, “Well, you’ve certainly got Gladys on your side, so it can’t be too bad, can it?”

Harry chuckled.  He’d had his meeting with Gladys Howard the day before.  They’d spent the majority of their time together talking about Niall and how he’d been taking her out to dinner once every other week for the better part of a year.  Sometimes a fancy French restaurant, sometimes a hot dog cart, always a new place, always delicious.  Harry knew the meeting had gone well, especially compared to some others.  One in particular, maybe.

“That lady sure loves you,” Harry said.

Niall nodded in proud confirmation.  “And I love her back,” he replied, scooting around in his seat to get more comfortable.  He never had been much good at sitting still.

“Do they hate the Strauss, Niall?” Harry asked tentatively after a short pause, wincing slightly as he pictured Louis Tomlinson’s face from their meeting earlier that week.  His sharp cheekbones, the intensity of his eyes beneath his brow.  The flippant way he’d said _Don Juan,_ like he was using it as a weapon somehow -- as an odd, covert personal attack on Harry, or as an in-joke with himself.  Harry suppressed a shiver and chewed on the side of his thumbnail, his pulse picking up just a bit.  “How much do they hate it?”

Niall waved Harry’s concern away with a flick of his wrist.  “Oh, I don’t know.  There’s a little bellyaching, maybe.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  How it always is.”  He shrugged, “You know, yer new.  So.”

Harry nodded, taking a shaky breath and letting it out slowly.  He did know, all too well.  He’d been new lots of times.  New and young, a particularly potent combination.  He’d been initially underestimated by orchestras almost his entire career as a conductor.  At times, certain musicians had been outright dismissive.  Harry had a particularly vivid memory from a guest stint in Cologne of an incredibly pompous second viola who had openly informed him that he simply hadn’t the experience to be a good conductor, not at his age; it just wasn’t possible, not yet.   _God, violists,_ Harry thought darkly, always such sticks in the mud.   _There are jokes for a reason..._

“Hey,” Niall said, calling him back to reality and giving him a stern look.  “It’s just a matter of time.  You know that.  You’ll get their trust.  You will.  You always do.”

It was true that Harry had been almost universally successful so far at proving himself a more than capable conductor.  He had always eventually been able to secure an orchestra’s respect, no matter how shaky things had started out.  There was no reason the LSO shouldn’t be the same.

“I don’t know what it is this time, Niall,” Harry said slowly, bringing a hand up to his forehead and closing his eyes. He hadn’t realized he felt quite so uneasy about things until they started talking about it.  “Feels a little different somehow.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Niall letting him think.

“Almost like I want it too much?” Harry said uncertainly, opening his eyes to gauge his friend’s response, still not sure that it was the correct answer himself.

“Ah, Haz,” Niall said sympathetically.  He looked directly at Harry, brow knit with concern.  “Let’s go for a pint t’night, yeah?”

Harry threw his head back and laughed, nodding in agreement, as affection for Niall flooded through him again.  Niall smiled, happy to be of help, and launched into descriptions of the pubs in the area that he considered eligible choices.  He had a complicated system of rating pubs that included cross-referencing those with good draft beers with those with frequent booth availability with those with acceptable jukeboxes.  These were the three big factors in order of descending importance that an individual needed to take into account when evaluating a prospective drinking establishment, according to Niall Horan.  He considered himself to be a true expert on the subject.  (“I’ve put in my 10,000 hours, Harold.  Prodigies are made, not born, and I am a prodigy of the damn pub, so listen up.”)

Harry had been paying close attention to what Niall was saying, always one to enjoy hearing people talk about things they were highly interested in, when a flash of movement outside the office caught his eye.  Louis Tomlinson and Eleanor Calder were on the other side of the mezzanine, across the narrow open space of the atrium, moving toward the north end of the floor.  They were walking swiftly -- or rather, Tomlinson was walking swiftly, his powerful legs propelling him forward with graceful efficiency.  Calder was just barely working to keep up.  They were probably on their way to a section meeting together, judging by the fat binder tucked under Tomlinson’s right arm and the violin cases they were each carrying.  Just as Harry was about to give his full attention back to Niall, Eleanor Calder turned her head and threw a glance at his office.  It appeared as though she were staring right at him, but Harry wasn’t quite sure she could make him out at that distance, with the glass wall of his office between them.  It was confirmed she could, though, when (to his great amusement and surprise) she smiled openly and waved in an unmistakably flirtatious manner, fluttering her fingers at him and even going so far as to flip her lovely dark hair over one shoulder.  Harry’s gaze flicked over to Tomlinson just in time to see him roll his eyes heavily at the exchange, entirely unimpressed as usual, and then redouble the pace of his stride.  His stand partner was forced to take several quick steps to catch up, her bejeweled flats glinting in the light that came streaming through the windows at the front of the Barbican.

“Fucking Tommo,” Niall said with a snort.  He’d turned to look over his shoulder, following Harry’s eyeline when he’d stopped listening, and was apparently quite entertained by what he’d seen.  “Always on a goddamn mission.”

Harry gave a humorless laugh.  “Certainly has it out for me.”

“Still think you guys’ll get on,” Niall said.  He screwed up his face and then continued gingerly, stretching out the word, “Eventually...”

“He thinks I’m a joke,” Harry said, fingers at his lips, the truth of it solidifying in his brain as he said it out loud.  “He thinks _Don Juan_ is a joke and he thinks I am too.”

“You aren’t a joke, and if Louis thinks that, he’s an idiot.”  Niall’s voice was low, his disappointment in the situation clear.  He was tapping his fingers harshly on the armrests now, agitated.

“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Harry said softly, and unconvincingly.  It was true.  Or at least it should have been.  It should have been true, but it wasn’t, not quite.  Louis felt different somehow.  He cut so close, so quickly, and Harry wasn’t ready to think through why that was.  Not yet.

“I’m gonna talk t’ him,” Niall said firmly, still fidgeting in his chair with frustration.

“No!” Harry exclaimed, more sharply than he’d intended.  He blushed furiously.  He had to shake his head and take a deep breath before he continued, trying to steady himself.  “Please don’t, Nialler.  I appreciate it, but I can handle it on my own.  I really can.”

He felt strangely exposed at having let Niall see how much Louis was bothering him.  Embarrassed, actually.  He rolled his eyes at himself, wanting to fix it, get control of it somehow.  He was usually so comfortable being vulnerable with Niall and he didn’t know why this wasn’t the same.  God, everything about Louis Tomlinson made him feel out of sorts, strangely squirmy in his own skin.  It was ridiculous.  He was being ridiculous, he needed to stop.  He couldn’t let Tomlinson get in his head like this; Harry could more than handle him.

“I’m being overdramatic; don’t listen to me.  It’s the new job, the stress, or whatever.  It’s fine.  I’m fine.  Louis Tomlinson is fine.  He’s the best, cuddliest, most easy-going violinist in the world.  Everything is wonderful and fine.  Don’t worry about me.”

Niall regarded him skeptically from across the table, eyebrows raised.  “If you say so, Styles.”

Harry nodded.  “I do.”

“We will most definitely be getting those pints, okay?” Niall said, still concerned and probably intending to reopen the discussion at the pub.

“Yep,” Harry nodded, “pints would be good.”  At that moment, Harry didn’t care at all what Niall thought he was going to coax out of him later that night.  He didn’t care that he would probably cave in and spill his pathetic, insecure guts straight away.  He was just looking forward to the feel and weight of a cold glass in his hand, to the undeniable amber-toned beauty of an excellent beer, and to the pleasant, full-bellied haze of a nice buzz.  Harry really, _really_ needed a drink, that was for sure.  It had been a long week.

Louis shifted his weight from side to side in his chair, careful not to jostle his violin too much where it rested on his left knee.  He stretched his neck and then his shoulders slowly, rolling them in loose circles, trying to relieve some of the tension in his muscles as he waited for Styles to proceed with rehearsal.  It was late Tuesday afternoon, and they had been working on _Don Juan_ for the past several hours.  Currently they were right in the thick of one of the more complicated passages.  It was already technically flawless and beginning to sound emotionally mature to Louis’s ears, but Styles didn’t quite seem satisfied with it.  He’d cut off the orchestra three minutes before with an easy flick of his baton and had been squinting out at the back of Jerwood Hall ever since, tugging occasionally on his lower lip, apparently lost in thought.

Louis rolled his eyes, barely suppressing an exasperated sigh.  He glanced over at Eleanor, checking to see whether she shared his irritation and eagerness to just get on with it, already.  Eleanor was eager, all right -- her gaze focused entirely on Harry Styles, looking almost breathless to see what he might say next.  Louis rolled his eyes again.  This time he didn’t quite contain the sigh, exhaling rather peevishly as he shifted on his seat.  He looked down at the ticking second hand of his watch as it crept forward, each increment feeling slower than last.

When Styles finally spoke, it was not what Louis was expecting.

“I am a gay man.”

His voice was a little gruff from disuse, but still rang out strong and firm.  An undercurrent of gentle, somewhat stifled laughter radiated through the horseshoe of the orchestra in response, rising and falling before it reached the percussion section.  Louis’s attention was definitely on Harry now, his head snapping as if on its own accord, eyes narrowing on the conductor’s face immediately.

Styles smiled at the orchestra’s reaction.  He raised a hand and said, “I know.  I know.  That’s probably not a surprise to most of you.”  He let out what Louis could only describe as a quiet combination of giggle and chuckle, a little shake of the head.  “I don’t try to hide it.”  He adjusted his posture then, standing up straight with his arms clasped behind his back.  His smile dimmed a shade as he took another breath and Louis swallowed, leaning forward in his seat.

“There was a time when I did, though,” Styles said, clearing his throat into a fist and then returning his arm to its position behind his back, his eyes soft.  “A time when I tried to hide it.”  He tilted his head back and forth once or twice.  “Which is understandable, I think, given the way things were, and they way they still can be…  I was a teenager and, you know, felt awkward enough as it was.”  He rolled his eyes.  “I had no fashion sense and the fluffiest floofball of a hairdo, a big round moon face.”  He smiled and made a circle around his head with his hands.  “In all of my mum’s pictures from that time period I look like some kind of overeager St. Bernard.”  Styles laughed softly along with the orchestra at that, but Louis saw something flicker in his eyes as he waited for it to die out, almost a tenderness.

“But it wasn’t just awkwardness I was dealing with,” Styles continued.  He shook his and took a deep breath.  “I had a secret.  One that felt so huge and so…  so inconvenient, for lack of a better word.  A secret I kept wishing away.  But it wouldn’t; it wouldn’t go away.  Even though at the time I was doing my best to ignore it.  Like, if I pretended I didn’t know it was there, if I never fully acknowledged it to myself, then I’d never have to come to terms with it.  I could just keep living that way forever.  I mean, why would anyone else ever have to know, if I didn’t even know myself?”

Louis’s grip tightened on the neck of his violin as Harry spoke, his palm slick and sweaty on the polished maple.  He closed his eyes against a sudden rush of memories from his own adolescence.  Of sleepless nights spent staring blankly into the darkness of his room, bargaining with some unknown entity for deliverance from this terrible-seeming unfairness that had been foisted upon him.  The crushing worry of it.  The fear and the loneliness.  He shivered, and opened his eyes again as Harry continued to speak.

“I was in America the year I turned sixteen,” Harry said, “at a private school in Massachusetts for young musicians.”  He chuckled, “I’m sure most of you can imagine.  It was full of very talented, hypercompetitive, entitled little shits.”  A knowing ripple of laughter ran through the orchestra and Harry smiled, waiting for it to dissipate again before he went on.  “And I was definitely one of them,” he said, a hand on his chest as he referred to himself, “definitely one of the entitled little shits.

“I had a friend while I was there, though.  Rhea D’Angelo.”  He paused, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.  “Her name was Rhea D’Angelo.  She played cello with me and she wasn’t a little shit.  She was a lovely person.”  Harry shook his head and swallowed with a tense, grimace-like smile on his face, almost as if he was steeling himself against something.  Louis leaned in further, scooting forward on his chair.  “We never talked about it,” Harry said, “but Rhea knew my secret.  It was an unspoken understanding between us.  She knew, and it made me feel safe --  She made me feel safe.”

Harry sighed.  “Rhea was older than me by about two years though, and the other boys my age were intimidated by her.”  He let out a single humorless chuckle.  “Because we were entitled little shits and she was from a rougher part of Boston and wore a lot of black,” he rolled his eyes, working his jaw a little, “and she had actual breasts.  So.  They were terrified.  And this of course came out in the way they would talk about her.  Which was horrible; I’m sure you can imagine.  And because I was scared, and cowardly, and wanted to fit in, I never stood up for her.  Beyond denying it when they suggested we were sleeping together -- in, I assure you, much much more graphic terms than that --  I never stood up for her.  I regret that enough.  That was bad enough.  But then...”

Harry stopped and took another deep breath.  Louis could see that his left hand was shaking slightly.  He had dropped it from his chest and it was trembling where it gripped the stand in front of him.  “But then Rhea and I went into Boston together that spring, for the weekend.  Maria Kliegel was playing with the Philharmonic and we both wanted to go and Rhea was eighteen by then, so we could stay at a hotel by ourselves.  And it was -- it was just a _wonderful_ weekend.  The music was fantastic, and Rhea showed me around Boston and I felt…  I felt sophisticated, somehow.  Like I was actually nearly a grown-up for one of the first times in my life…  And then we went back to school.”

Harry took one more shuddering breath before going on, his voice tight.  “And these boys were just relentless.  They were after to me to know exactly what I had done with Rhea D’Angelo in that hotel room.  ‘How was Boston, Styles?’ all suggestive.  ‘How was D’Angelo?’  ‘You fucked her, right?’  ‘You must’ve.’  And I kept saying, ‘No, no.  We’re just friends.  Nothing happened,’ but they weren’t buying it.  They kept at it and kept at it.  Until finally it became ‘Well, why not?  Why the hell not, Styles?’ and ‘What’s wrong with you?’  It was… it was just hitting way too close to home.  I could feel them closing in on me.  On me and my secret.”

Louis’s breath caught in this throat, a little shock of familiar adrenaline running through him, more of his own similar memories flashing through his mind.  Memories of times when it felt like he was trying to outrun something he’d never escape.

“I just knew in my bones that they were seconds away from asking it,” Harry said.  “I could feel it coming.  ‘What, are you _gay_ or something?’  ‘Yeah, is that it, Styles?  Are you gay?  Is that what it is?’  And I’m sure it seems like it’s inevitable, where this is going.  That I must have caved in, that I finally just lied and said I’d slept with her to get them off my back.  And I nearly did.  I almost did.  That would have been better, maybe, than what I actually said.  Because just before, just as I was pushed over the edge and gave in to them, I was hit by this terrible bolt of creative lightning.  And I said, with as much scathing disdain as I could possibly muster, ‘Why would I want to sleep with Rhea D’Angelo, anyway?  She always looks like she’s just got back inside from smoking a cigarette.’”  Harry let out a choked, wet noise at that point, a garbled sound of self-disgust.  “And I got a laugh,” he said, bleakly.  “A big, appreciative laugh because of this horrifying and cruel thing I’d said about the person who, at the time, was really -- was really my best friend.”

Harry’s voice cracked slightly on the last two words, and he took another unsteady breath, closing his eyes momentarily and holding up a hand to the orchestra once more.  “I cannot even begin to describe the shame I felt, just having said that at all.  But then I realized, with this sort of slow-motion, out of body horror, that Rhea had overheard me.  That she was standing by the soda machines several feet behind us and had heard everything I’d said.”

He paused, placing the palms of his hands against his eyes for a few seconds. The orchestra was completely hushed; Louis was barely breathing.

“It’s not an exaggeration to say that at that point, it felt like the worst moment of my entire life.  It still is one of them,” Harry sighed finally, his brow furrowed, as he touched his breastbone with his fingertips.  “I was never able to fully repair my relationship with Rhea.  I apologized, and because she was a better person than I am, she accepted it… but I don’t blame her for not fully trusting me again.  For years I couldn’t touch that memory with a twenty-foot pole.  I was so disappointed in myself, devastated.  Even now, this is maybe the third time I’ve talked about it since it happened.

“The reason I brought it up, the reason I _am_ talking about it now, is that I think most people have had those kinds of moments,” he gestured to the musicians in front of him, “and that most people have that kind of memory.  Of a time when you disrespected someone else, humiliated them, and in the process you felt like you’d debased yourself as well.  Like you had betrayed your own morals, and, as dramatic as it sounds, that you were beyond redemption.  A hideous lost cause.”

Louis shifted in his seat yet again, guilty recognition spreading a hot flush of shame through his body.  He remembered times at Interlochen, when he was sixteen or seventeen, times when he’d bossed the other kids around, ridiculing them in front of everyone else for their inferior technique.  He winced internally as specific images flashed through his mind.  (Of big, wet, green eyes, guarded and vulnerable as they blinked up at him.  Fluffy, dark brown curls on a clammy forehead, and hunched shoulders, baby fat.   _Boléro._ )  Louis swallowed thickly at the memories, his heart rate jumping.  The college-aged counselors had called him Napoleon behind his back, “the Little Napoleon of the Violins”.  It had been humiliating when he’d found out, even more so because of the realization that it was accurately applied, and that he probably deserved it.

Harry tapped the score in front him with two fingers.  “Now, that is exactly -- _exactly_ the type of intense feeling that Don Juan is experiencing during this part of the piece.  He’s devastated by his own actions, by the way he’s treated these women, and he feels almost hopeless, beyond redemption and unworthy of it.  And that’s what I want you to play.  That’s the strength and force of emotion that I want you to bring to this passage when we perform it.”

Harry gazed out at the orchestra after he’d finished speaking, his eyes moving slowly over them, looking to see if his words had sunk in.  Louis was stunned.  He blinked rapidly, his heart still stuttering.  He felt a disconnected, sinking sensation as his brain struggled to reconcile the Harry Styles in front of him with all the swirling ideas he'd had about Harry in his head.

“Harry is gay?” Eleanor hissed in a whisper next to him.

“What?” Louis asked, after a beat, turning to look at her, his eyebrows knit in confusion.

“Harry is _gay?”_ she repeated, clearly surprised and irritated with him for withholding this information.

Louis snorted in disbelief.  “That’s all you got out of that whole story?” he asked, shaking with quiet, incredulous laughter.

Eleanor shrugged.

Louis was chuckling slightly as he turned back toward the conducting podium to wait for further instruction.  He lifted his head slowly, still laughing, and took a sharp breath when he caught Harry’s eye.  His heart dropped into his stomach as Harry’s face fell in reaction to Louis’s amusement, his apparent indifference.  Louis wanted to fix it immediately, wanted to explain.  But all he could do was sit there with his mouth hanging open and his right hand raised a touch in a failed attempt to object.  Harry had already cleared his brow and turned back to the orchestra, calling out a measure and lifting his arms, ready to begin again.

 _Fuck,_ Louis thought, as he followed Harry’s baton, starting with a gentle down bow on the first note of the measure.   _Fuck._  This wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joshua Bell [played in the subway](http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html) once.
> 
> Here’s [Ballade](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEl6Nxon_Kc) (the piece Louis said he would play in the tube), which is awesome.
> 
> Josh Groban’s real middle name is Winslow, not Meriwether.
> 
> Don Juan isn’t really disrespected in the classical music community, I don’t think, but artistic license!!! We’re taking it!
> 
> And also, apologies to any violists out there. The viola is a noble instrument.


	3. Chapter 3

Rehearsal didn’t go on for very much longer that afternoon.  They played through Don Juan’s despair twice more before Styles released them.  He had leaned toward the orchestra in a slight bow after their first go-round.  “Much better,” he’d said, gravely.  Then he’d smiled out at them, eyes sparkling, as he raised his arms to begin again.  “No pressure or anything.”   And the laugh that followed eased the heaviness of the mood in the hall.  Their second run-through had gone even better than the first.

Louis could feel it around him, this sort of wonderfully controlled upwelling of emotional power that enhanced everything, resonating out in the single held note that was meant to convey the devastating extent of the Don’s desolation.  He heard it lifting the music, but he felt removed from it, isolated by his distraction.  All he could think about was Harry’s misinterpretation of his laughter, how momentary disappointment had washed over his face and then melted slowly into resignation, as though he shouldn’t really have expected better of Louis in the first place.  As if laughing that way were somehow in keeping with Louis’s character!  Louis’s fingers continued to move quickly and accurately over the neck of his violin, his play flawless as usual, but it was by rote.  Louis couldn’t relax into the music.  He couldn’t engage all the way, not with this ridiculous misunderstanding hanging over his head.  He needed to explain.

 _He’s apparently under the impression I’m some kind of heartless psychopath,_ Louis thought as he tucked Thunder away after rehearsal, loosening his bow with two quick snaps of the wrist and yanking on the zipper of the case’s protective cover maybe a tad harder than was strictly necessary.  His eyes were trained on Harry, still standing near his podium and surrounded by a small crush of people who had gathered to ask questions.   _Stupid Eleanor,_ Louis groused, determined to wait everyone out and clear things up with Harry as soon as possible.   _How can someone who’s been a part of the arts world for this long still have such bloody awful gaydar?_  He pretended to organize his folder of music as the crowd around Harry dwindled down.  Once it was only Gerald Courtenay left (most likely talking Harry’s ear off about how the viola section had been slighted yet again in some horribly offensive way or another) Louis decided to make his move, reaching for his case and taking several slow steps in their direction.

He jumped nearly a foot in the air and definitely let out an undignified squawk when he felt someone tug sharply on his sleeve.

“Pardon.”  Styles’s assistant _(Liam Price? Liam Payne?)_ was standing sheepishly behind him.  He was holding up a hand like he thought Louis might attack.  “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Would it have killed you to say my name once or twice before accosting my person?” Louis asked, irritated about his plan of action being interrupted.

Liam’s face, whatever his last name was, went pinched with annoyance.  “I said your name about six times, all right Tomlinson?  I have something to tell you.”

“Oh,” Louis said weakly, glancing over his shoulder to where Gerald Courtenay had started gesticulating rather animatedly inches from Harry’s face.  Louis was surprised; Harry looked more amused than he did frightened.  “Sorry…  What?  What is it?”  He turned back to Payne, blinking.

“Well, I know how reluctant you are to check your Outlook…”

Louis nodded,looking back over his shoulder as he tuned Liam out again.  He cursed under his breath.  Harry Styles had wrapped an arm around Courtenay’s shoulders and was guiding him out the side door of the rehearsal hall, both of them laughing heartily.   

“Shit,” Louis whispered.  He held up a finger to Liam as he trailed after them.  “I’ll--  I’ll be right back.”

“This will just take one second, Tommo!  It’s about tomorrow!” Liam called out behind him.  “Check your Outlook please…” was the last thing Louis heard as he strong-armed the West Lobby door open.

It was deserted, of course.

“Fuck.”  He turned in a circle, looking for clues as to which way they might have gone.  There were none.

Half an hour later he was slumped in a seat on the tube, clutching Thunder to his chest and stewing, uneasy and unhappy.  He’d checked Styles’s office at St. Luke’s and then trekked all the way over to the Barbican to check there too -- absolutely no sign of him at either place.  Louis turned his head toward the front of the train, staring out the window as he tried to look past his reflection and make out the walls of the tunnel beyond it.

Tomorrow.  He’d talk to Styles about it tomorrow.  He just had to wait; it was only one night.

 _Why are you making this into such a big deal?_ he asked himself, staring into his own pinprick pupils as the train hurdled through a particularly dark section of the tube.  The tangled knot of anxiety in his stomach lurched in response and a host of images he’d been trying to keep at bay swirled into his mind.  So many sets of disappointed eyes.  Louis shut his, quickly, tightly.  Always better not to ask yourself direct questions, especially when you already know the answer but don’t want to admit it.

 _Fuck._  He squeezed Thunder closer to him, like an awkwardly shaped teddy bear.   _I’ve nothing to feel guilty about, really._  His eyes flew open again and he winced into the harsh, unflattering light of the train car.   _Yes, good job, Louis, as usual.  Just lie to yourself all night, that’s the way.  Nothing to feel guilty about at all, not you._  An uncomfortably familiar feeling of self-loathing washed over him, settling in and making itself at home -- the kind where he wished he had an entirely different brain from an entirely different person, one who had entirely different memories because they’d made entirely different and better life choices.   _Fuck._  Maybe it was only one night, but it was probably going to feel like three weeks.

He was right, of course.  Come 1:00 a.m. Louis still had the very same brain, unfortunately, and it wasn’t allowing him to sleep.  All of the horrible memories inside it were keeping him awake.  Well, it was a combination of the memories, the dry-dry, hot-hot air in his now terrible bedroom, and his pulse, which he couldn’t seem to escape no matter how many times he turned over.  Whichever way he positioned his head on his pillow, there it was pounding in his ears : lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.   _Harry Styles, Harry Styles, Harry Styles._

Harry Styles’s face at rehearsal, his disappointed face.  Hurt -- that’s the word.  Harry had been hurt by him that afternoon.  Louis knew it.  And lying in his bed with his face smushed into the pillow, his nuisance of a heartbeat thrumming in his eardrums, he still could not stop thinking about it.  Even though it hadn’t been what he’d intended, it still felt awful.  It certainly hadn’t stopped Harry from feeling bad, and it definitely wasn’t preventing Louis from remembering the times when that was what he’d intended.  Because there were plenty of those.  Horrible memories inside his brain of times when he’d intentionally hurt Harry Styles.  He recognized that look this afternoon because he’d put it there before, on purpose.  Put it on a softer, rounder, fuller version.  Harry had been such peach back then, so sweet.  Louis’s lower stomach clenched at the thought, an illicit thrill running through him against his will.  He smothered it quickly, with a miserable groan.  It was the guilt that was keeping him awake.  That was it, mostly.  That was it _entirely._

“You were at Interlochen three full summers?” Eleanor had asked in horrified disbelief, her eyes wide with dread, head shaking slowly back forth.  It had come up early in their stand partnership, when they were just feeling each other out.  “I cannot _even_ imagine.  Can’t even -- I’ve dealt with a lot of toxically competitive environments in my life, obviously, but two weeks there and my hair was coming out in clumps.”  She’d shivered.  “I still have a negative reaction to friendship bracelets, Louis.  It’s visceral; it’s a visceral thing.”

Louis smiled into his pillow and rolled his eyes at the thought.  Eleanor.  She could be such an overly dramatic exaggerator, but at least she was mostly entertaining about it.  They had that in common.  (Louis didn’t want to live in whatever boring world existed without hyperbole.  Would you rather be friends with someone who whines that they’ve been stuck in the queue at the post office for forty-five minutes or forty-five months?  The answer seemed clear.)  She was exaggerating about Interlochen, sort of.  Or she was ignoring the upside to it.  It was exhilarating, being with the best of the best musicians your own age, being good already and just getting better and better, experiencing the rush of giving a truly accomplished performance.  But the pressure, God.  It wasn’t for everyone.

It _was_ visceral, though.  That was the truth.  Louis could only seem to remember Interlochen with his full body, all at once, and almost never on purpose.  Standing on a street corner near Hyde Park in the early spring, having caught the smell of a very specific type of acrid mud lingering in the air, he would suddenly be slammed back in time to a practice cabin in the woods after a rain (kissing Ally McKenna there because he knew he was supposed to want to and being bored out of his skull by it).  Lighting a sparkler on New Year’s Eve brought back the Fourth of July in America, the _reet-reet-ribbit_ noise of the frogs after dark down by the lake.  Mosquitoes and bare feet, dirty ankles.  Sitting down in a cheap lawn chair at a garden party, he would feel a seat from the Interlochen Bowl instead, would remember how the metal mesh always left imprints on the backs of everyone’s thighs.  Midsummer performances; his mother’s voice echoing in his mind.  “Who was that young man on cello?  Such a mature sound… so expressive.”  Worst of all, worst of _all_ , was that time he'd heard the opening lines of _Boléro_ at a charity concert he hadn’t bothered to check the program to.  He'd felt his palms get instantly sweaty as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, chest constricting.   _Boléro._

*

By the time Louis trekked all the way back to Dogwood, his camp-issued regulation baby blue polo shirt was all blotchy with sweat -- at the small of his back, under his pits, even a spritz of moisture showing through the fabric over his solar plexus.  Louis wasn’t a big time perspirer, as a general rule, but it had been so hot and humid the past couple of days that any time he exited a building it felt as though he were wearing the air like a damp hooded sweatshirt.  It was more than a little uncomfortable.  

Louis knew he shouldn’t be surprised.  The same thing had happened the summer before; an oppressive mugginess engulfed the camp for almost a week and a half in mid-July before a massive thunderstorm finally rolled in and broke the heat.  He just wished he’d remembered as much when he was shoving Robbie Hahn out of the way and launching his duffel bag clear across Dogwood Cabin to claim the last available top bunk on the day they’d arrived.  He’d almost sweltered to death in that very same top bunk the night before, so hot and tired that his left leg kept twitching in his tangled sheets.

 _Heat rises, genius,_ he chastised himself as he trudged up the steps of the cabin’s front porch, palm slick on the rough pinewood bannister.

Not that anyone else in the cabin had actually been able to sleep properly last night either, relatively cooler (marginally less hot, more like) bottom bunk or not.  Nope, not when the heat seemed to be exacerbating Robbie’s status as a horrible mouthbreather to the degree that it was.  Robbie had a deviated septum, so it wasn’t really fair to complain, but of course Louis did anyway.

“I’m fairly certain it would be considered justifiable homicide at this point,” he’d finally moaned out, some time after midnight when Robbie’s maddeningly rhythmic breathing seemed to be getting louder with each consecutive exhalation.  Everyone had laughed together in miserable solidarity after that.  Well, everyone except Robbie, who was asleep, obviously.

Dogwood.  Louis _would_ get stuck in Dogwood Cabin his last summer here.  Furthest away from campus, smallest, the one cabin without a window air conditioning unit.  The only beneficial aspect of the situation that Louis had managed to identify was that it afforded him the opportunity to make jokes about canine boners whenever he wanted.  “Heading back to the Red Rocket” being one of his faves.

“Ah, Louis.  Great!” Marcus said, as Louis let the screen door to the cabin _thwap_ shut behind him.  “You’re the last one!  Q-Time, remember?”

Louis rolled his eyes.  He’d been hoping they’d started without him.  Like maybe, best case scenario, they’d have been completely done by the time he’d made it from the practice cabins all the way over to climate-controlled storage for his violin and then all the way back to Dogwood.  That way, he could’ve just lain on his wretched top bunk and closed his eyes and visualized his Mendelssohn solo until it was time for dinner.  Louis’s difficulty sleeping was making it even harder than usual to relax about his performance on the coming weekend.  That and the fact that his mum would be there.

“You’ll still have a free half-hour before dinner, Tommo, I promise,” Marcus said, smiling at him in his irritatingly knowing Marcus way.

Marcus Dewitt was the camp counselor for Dogwood.  He was a stocky trumpet player from somewhere in the Midwestern United States that was not Chicago or Interlochen, Michigan, so fuck if Louis knew where.  He was at Eastman School of Music, which was impressive, but Louis thought of him as a bit of a wet blanket.  He wore Birkenstocks and talked about how music wasn’t a competition, it was a collaboration, and also forced them to do cabin bonding activities seemingly every twelve minutes.

Louis rolled his eyes again, sighing as he slumped over to the Q-time circle that the rest of the campers had formed on the floor of the cabin.  He sat down heavily in the only available spot, next to Harry Styles.  Styles shifted over awkwardly to make room for him, blushing and self-consciously patting down his hair (which had gone even more completely wild than normal in the humidity) while ducking his chin to hide a spot from Louis’s view.  Louis just rolled his eyes even more.

“Ok!” Marcus said, sitting down at the head of the circle and wedging one overdeveloped calf muscle under the other.  He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, like he couldn’t wait to get started.

Dogwood Q-Time was Marcus’s favorite cabin bonding activity of all.  It stood for both “Question Time” and “Quality Time,” which Louis found to be rather vomit-inducing.  Every evening in the two-hour free period before dinner, Marcus would pose a question to the cabin and then they’d go around the circle and listen as each person gave their answer (hopefully sparking a positive discussion that would lead to everyone trusting each other more and other gross-sounding things about feelings and friendship).

Louis hated it, naturally.

Marcus smiled out at the circle, his long, white-blond eyelashes bunching up at the corners.  “Today’s question:  What’s the one piece you’ve never performed that you most want to?”

Louis groaned internally, having no readily available answer.  He leaned back on one hand, while subtly airing out his polo with the other, tugging it away from his belly. He hated getting little sweat marks along the creases of his stomach when he sat down.

“I’ll go first,” Marcus continued.  “This is cheating a little bit, since I’ve played it before --”

“Oh so you get to cheat, huh?” Louis asked, brows arched.  “Do we?”

Marcus laughed.  “Absolutely not; everyone else has to stick strictly to the question asked, no deviation or wiggle room allowed.”

Harry giggled, and looked over at Louis from under his fringe, eyes bright, eager to see how he’d respond.  All the boys were looking to him now.  It was a familiar position.  If there was one thing that Louis liked about Dogwood besides the boner jokes, it was that he got to hold court so often, everyone looking up to him because he was the best at all the right things: violin, football (“soccer” here, eyeroll), getting a tan, wearing the camp-issued regulation baby blue polo - sweat blotched or not.  And being funny.  Louis was definitely the best at that.

“Do as I say, not as I do?” he asked, with a smirk.  “That’s how it is?”  As much as Louis thought Marcus was a dork, he wasn’t completely without a sense of humor.

“Yes, exactly, Tommo,” Marcus said, still smiling.  “Mind if I continue?”

Louis just shrugged his approval, fanning himself with his shirt.

“What I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted,” Marcus went on, his eyes twinkling, “was that I’ve played The Star-Spangled Banner lots of times before, at a lot of high school basketball games and things, but my specific dream would be to perform it before a Packers Game.  Preferably during the play-offs, but I’d take what I could get.”

Louis felt Harry shift next to him, excited.  Harry was the baby of the cabin at fifteen and he was always overexcited about everything, including following Louis around camp.

“At Lambeau Field, right?” Harry asked, inching subtly forward into the Q-Time circle, unable to contain his enthusiasm.  “That’s where they play?  In Green Bay?”

Marcus grinned, nodding.  “Yep.  Didn’t know if you’d remember.”

“‘Course,” Harry said brightly, all teacher’s pet.

Louis rolled his eyes again.  He always did a lot of eye rolling during Q-Time.  Always did a lot of eye rolling around Harry.

He zoned out as they made their way slowly around the rest of the circle, his fingers moving on an invisible fingerboard as he played through the Allegretto movement of the Mendelssohn in his mind.  He’d been tripped up by the beginning of it all afternoon, even though it had been flawless for the past two weeks, and the regression was making him feel slightly nauseated with worry.

“Louis...” Marcus said.

“Hm?”  Louis’s head snapped up, his hands stilling.  

“It’s your turn.”

“Ah.”  Louis scrunched up his face thinking.  “Uhhh, Caprice No. 24.  Paganini.  I guess.”

“Any reason why?” Marcus prompted, after a long pause.

Louis shrugged.  “I dunno.  I mean, it’s the hardest.  So.  I want to be able to play it.”

“Anything else?  Any other reasons?”

“Do there need to be any other reasons?” Louis snapped, not intending it to come out sounding quite as short as it did.

“Nope,” Marcus answered, eyes a little wide as he popped the ‘P’ a little bit and turned to Harry.

“What about you, little H?”

Louis meant to zone right back out, get back to his Allegretto, but something about the way Harry Styles was shifting around next to him, uncomfortable under everyone’s attention, made it impossible for him to do so.  

“Ummm,” Harry said tentatively, picking at a thread on his jean shorts, his cheeks turning a pleasing pink.  Harry always got a little nervous before saying his answers during Q-time, like he was worried everyone was going to judge him for them.  Which they were, if they were really listening.  But his nervousness irritated Louis anyway, regardless of whether it was justified.  It was just another thing for him to roll his eyes at.  Most things about Harry seemed to annoy him, actually.  Like, specifically even just how he turned pink when answering, every time, all cherub-like.  Louis hated that so much.  It made something inside him twist and squirm and he had to work hard to squelch the feeling, banish it from existing as an acknowledgable thing.  It gave him this strange urge to squelch Harry out of existing, too.

“I guess...” Harry continued, his voice slow and earnest as usual.  He brushed his humidity-fluffed curls to the side, across his forehead, again and again in a nervous motion.

“You guess...” Louis said leadingly, his voice edging on snotty, trying to encourage Harry to just get on with it already.  This amused most of the other boys, but not Marcus, who shot him a look.  Louis just rolled eyes again.  

“Um, I’ve… I’ve been thinking for a while now that I’d really like to play _Boléro,”_ Harry finally blurted out, in an almost unintelligible rush, “‘cause, like --”

“What’s next at this hypothetical concert of yours, then?” Louis asked, with a sarcastic snort.  “Twinkle Variations?”

Harry turned tomato red at Louis’s words, flushing even darker at the laughter that followed.

“Louis,” Marcus said sharply.

 _“Boléro,_ really?” Louis scoffed, eyes wide, jerking his head back in disbelief.  “You’re going to defend that one?”

“I-I know…  I know it’s a bit repetitive…” Harry stuttered, fingers trembling where they rested on his pale white thighs, right above the knees. 

“Oh, just a bit,” Louis said, with a condescending nod.  

Harry fell silent, biting his lip.

“What is it about that piece that makes you want to play it, Harry?” Marcus asked kindly, after glaring at Louis again.  He was genuinely interested in Harry’s answer in a way that Louis knew he never was in Louis’s own.

Harry’s eyes darted over to Louis and quickly away again before he continued, his blush reinvigorated by their eye contact.

“S’just,” he started again, voice small, “I’ve been reading about patterns a lot lately.  Like.  Like not just in music.  Like, music theory or whatever, but,” he cleared his throat, “but like in stories, too?  Like, the way, um, the way certain narratives get repeated over and over again.  Myths?  Sort of, I dunno.  And I thought… like with _Boléro,_ you get the same, um.  The same strain of music and rhythm again and again and it builds.  So like, it’s kind of like… kind of like those types stories.  Like if you put the right, um.  If you put the right emotion, or like, different emotions, into each repetition, it could be played so that each one felt like a whole new thing, even though it was actually, actually the same…”

“That’s a pretty interesting idea, Harry,” Marcus said, softly, after a beat.  He was impressed.  Louis could see it on his face.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly, fussing with his shorts some more, possibly close to tears.  The idea of which made Louis irrationally angry.

 _What a baby,_ he thought, shaking his head, further irritated at the distant tug of guilt he felt inside before quickly extinguishing it.   _Boléro.  Fucking Boléro._  He knew he wasn’t going to be able to let this go.

And he didn’t.  Not over the next couple of weeks.  Louis kept singing it under his breath, getting the other boys in Dogwood to join in when he could.   _“Baaa-ba-da-da-da-da-da-dut-da-da-dahhh...”_  Behind Harry in the cereal line at breakfast.  Right before Harry’s turn to kick during kickball.  Quietly, mockingly, after Harry played a particularly difficult solo during rehearsal.

Louis couldn’t seem to get enough of the way it flustered Harry.  How his cheeks went hot without fail, far past pink to blazing red as his big, pale child’s hand pushed at his fringe in suppressed embarrassment, teeth pulling at his lower lip.

Until one day toward the end of camp, when Louis had been waylaid by some digestive pyrotechnics after his stomach disagreed with a sloppy joe.  He’d been stuck in the Dogwood toilets for hours and was praying he’d had his last recurrence so he could finally get back to practicing.  Suddenly he heard the cabin door open and slam shut, the sound of someone climbing up into a bunk.

“Mum, no… I just…  Th-they hate me here.”  It was Harry, on the phone to his mum.  He finished his sentence in a whisper, voice wobbly and hushed, almost like didn’t even want his mum to hear it -- didn’t want to have be saying it out loud at all.  Then after a pause, “Yes, they do!  You don’t know!  You don’t know how it is...”

Louis listened to the sound of sniffling.  It went on long enough that he started to wonder whether Harry was still on the phone, or if he’d just started crying into his pillow all alone.  Louis could barely hear the sound of Harry’s soft sobs over the pounding of his own heart.

“Well, ok _ayyy,”_ Harry said at last, huffy and a little stroppy.  “I love you too, and I know it’s only a week left, so I’ll stay, but I just want to say I think it’s horrible sometimes the things adults force children to do because they are supposedly ‘fun.’  Okay?  Like, I do not think this is has been particularly fun; it’s mostly been torture...  And then like maybe I’ve gotten slightly better at cello and sometimes I get to eat marshmallows and I guess campfire songs aren’t the worst.”  He finished the last part with a watery laugh, and Louis felt suddenly close to tears himself, huddled in his disgusting toilet stall thinking about this poor boy being able to laugh like that with his mum, even though he was so upset.  Even though Louis had made him ashamed.

Louis never teased Harry Styles about _Boléro_ again.

*

The sound of Louis’s alarm was confusing.  It didn’t make sense.  It was too soon, too quick, still too dark outside; he’d fallen asleep much too recently for this to be happening to him.  His body hurt too much.  He was too tired.  His brain simply did not want to be awake.   _Not yet, please._  The noise of the alarm was horribly insistent, though, and seemed to grow louder by the second.  Louis rolled over onto his back with a groan, finally admitting defeat and patting around for his phone so that he could silence it.  Of course he bungled his attempt to hit snooze when he managed to locate it, his sleep-useless fingers disobeying him and cancelling the alarm all the way instead.  He’d have to get up immediately if he didn’t want to accidentally fall back asleep for hours and hours.

 _Shit,_ he thought, still splayed out on his back, delaying just a little while longer, eyes lightly closed.  He took one deep breath, then another.  The warm, dry air in the room was harsh in his nostrils.  He hated the morning.   _Styles._

His swung his feet over the side of the bed and lurched out of it, stumbling blindly toward the bathroom. The sooner he got this over with the better.

Harry had just turned the corner out of Jerwood Hall after morning rehearsal when he crashed into Louis Tomlinson.  “Oof,” Harry grunted as their bodies collided, warm against each other for a moment before Louis untangled himself and pushed away, fussily checking his violin case for damage.

“Finally,” he breathed, exasperated and flicking his fringe out of his eyes.  “What were you doing in there, admiring the architecture?”

“Running through that last section again,” Harry stuttered, self-consciously stepping back another pace and regarding Louis.  “Visualizing it.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes…” Harry furrowed his brow.  “Were you _waiting_ for me?”

Louis shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable for a moment, before a sharp nod of the head.  “I was.  I want to say something to you.”

Harry bit his lip, letting a small, hopeful smile play over his face.  Louis wouldn’t meet his eye.  “Go on then, Tomlinson.”  He cocked his hip, settling a hand on it, waiting.

Louis sighed as though he were a schoolboy in a sixth form Maths course being made to recite an apology to his teacher for speaking out of turn.  His words came out quickly, strung together in a rush.  “I just wanted you to know that I was laughing at Eleanor yesterday, not at your story.  Okay?  So in case you thought I was laughing at you.  I was not.”

Harry’s smile grew, and he couldn’t escape the warm feeling that suddenly bubbled up in his chest.  He’d been slightly bothered by Louis’s reaction the day before, so flippant when Harry had just taken what felt like a huge risk and poured his heart out to his colleagues about something so personal.  Something that Louis, of all people, should have understood…  (Well, okay, maybe Harry had been more than slightly bothered.  Maybe it had felt _slightly_ like a punch to the gut.  Maybe he’d felt breathless, and maybe he had been turning it over in his head ever since.  Pressing on the bruise.)

Louis blushed a little, fidgeting with his scarf.  “So.  I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Harry grinned, a strange buoyancy washing through him.  “Why were you laughing at Eleanor, though?”

Louis chuckled, finally lifting his chin to meet Harry’s gaze.  His eyes were so blue…  “Well, you had just told this incredibly private story, and like, related it to the music.  Very effectively, I’ll be honest; I think you gave all of us a new way of looking at _Don Juan.”_  He cleared his throat and dropped his eyes again, as though he hadn’t meant to give that much away.  “But all Eleanor got out of it was that she couldn’t believe you were gay.”

Harry let out a loud bark of a laugh and clapped a gloved hand over his mouth.  He flexed his jaw, drawing his fingers down from the corners of his lips as he shook his head.  “No.  Really?”

Louis’s shoulders started to convulse with silent laughter.  “She was so disappointed.”

“She thought I was straight?”

Louis started to chuckle out loud as he nodded vigorously.  “Completely.  Pretty sure she was planning on seducing you.”

Harry was almost breathless, not sure what was so hilarious but feeling the effervescent ache of it like healing in his belly.  He was almost high on this unexpected interaction with Louis, seeing him smile like he had been smiling with Gladys and Niall at that pub -- before Harry showed up.

“Does she think you’re straight, too?”

Louis cackled a real laugh at that and set them both off again, sagging against the wall for support, shoulders barely touching as they drew shuddering breaths.  Harry looked over at Louis.  They shared a quick glance, Harry trying to read the shifting patterns in Louis’s eyes, and then the moment was over.  Louis coughed, stood up straight.  There was an awkward sort of pause.  “Well...” he said.

“D’you want to share a cab?”

Louis sputtered.  “What?”

“To the photoshoot.”  Harry glanced at the heavy watch he wore on his left wrist.  “We’re going to be late as it is.”  He started walking swiftly, not too preoccupied with the time to notice how Louis had to take twice as many strides to keep up with him.

“What photoshoot?”

“Didn’t Liam tell you?  First round of promo for the spring season; we’ll be on billboards and those mailings they send to season ticket holders.  It was moved up to today because we have sectionals this afternoon instead of full rehearsal.”

“Sectionals that some of us _have to lead.”_  

Harry glanced slightly down and to his right, trying not to start laughing again at Louis’s pouty, stubborn face.  “You have a tuxedo, right?  Because the memo said…”

 _“Harold,”_ Louis interrupted, voice dripping with superiority, “I am the _concertmaster_ of the _London Symphony Orchestra._  I _always_ have a tux on hand.  Just give me three minutes.”

“Okay, then.”

They broke apart so that Harry could go retrieve the garment bag he’d carefully stowed in his office that morning.  He didn’t often do formalwear -- barely tolerated being out of his worn jeans long enough to lead rehearsal, though so far he had been making the effort to conform to the LSO’s dress culture -- but Harry quite enjoyed his tuxedo.  There was a sense of occasion that came from dressing to the nines, and Harry had always loved looking forward to occasions.  Christmas dinners, school dances, opening nights.  (Also, he knew he was a pretty picture in black.)  He patted his tux fondly as he stepped out the door, mindful of not skimming the bottom of the bag through the mud on the cobblestone walkway.

Louis was already at the curb in front of the church, mid-hail, with a similar black bag slung over his right arm.  He was also mid-text, and nodded tersely as Harry held the door of the taxi open for him to duck inside.

Harry was just about to slide in after him when a voice called out, “Wait!”  It was Liam Payne, scrambling out of the building with a fluttering sheaf of papers clutched to his chest.

“One moment, please,” Harry told the cab driver.  Louis didn’t appear to notice, still fully absorbed by his phone.

“Sorry,” Liam huffed.  “I’m running terribly late; both in charge of the New Final Final Schedule and also behind it -- ha!  Not pleasant.  Oops.”  He sat down heavily in the crowded cab and shut the door, accidentally shoving Harry into Louis’s side.

“Let’s not get fresh, Styles,” Louis muttered, glancing up and then around to Liam.  “Oh, Pine,” he said.  “Glad you could join us.”

“It’s, er -- ”

“Transvision Studios, please,” Harry said.  “Liam, address?”

“Right ho,” he shuffled through his papers, squinting desperately.  “102 Geffrye Street, Shoreditch.  Good?”

The driver nodded and pulled away.  They were silent, squished thigh-to-thigh in the back of the cab, just the soft rustling of Liam’s neverending stack of papers and the swift tapping of Louis’s fingers on his touchscreen.  Harry tried not to jiggle his leg, knee out at an odd angle, too aware of how he was pressed into Louis’s side.

“Ugh, _no,”_ Louis grumbled.  “You can’t just play through the whole thing slowly; that’s not how muscle memory works.  Take it five bars at a time.”

“Micromanaging your sectional from afar?”

“I’m responsible for them, aren’t I?” Louis snapped, eyes totally focused, forefinger flying with practiced precision over the tiny keyboard.  “And I’m just briefing Eleanor, that’s all.  Giving her a bit of direction.  That’s like, normo… managing.”

Harry hummed low in his throat and relaxed his broad shoulders back into the padded seat, guiltily enjoying the sensation of being pressed between two male bodies and the gentle vibration of the taxi.  His and Louis’s garment bags rested across their laps like a warm blanket.  Harry closed his eyes, only 75% sure he wouldn’t drift off before the cab ride was over.

“So what are you responsible for, Mr. Payne?” he asked, to distract himself.  “Going to tell us what poses to stand in?  Or are you our makeup artist?”

Liam coughed.  “Liaising,” he said.  “Grimmy -- er, Mr. Grimshaw has a vision.  And it is specific.”

“Let me guess,” Louis cut in, finally locking his phone and slipping it into his coat pocket.  “It’ll be Harry standing, holding his baton, in a series of portraits with all the section leaders and their instruments.  Black tuxedos and gowns on a pristine white background.”

Liam frowned.  “Well… yes…”

“Knew it,” Louis nodded.  “Exactly the same as the past three years.”  He sighed.  “Stand next to Valery, smile, hold your breath.  At least Styles doesn’t smell like fish.”

Harry’s eyes flew open.  “Did you just insult Valery Gergiev?”

“Valery Gergiev is a genius,” Louis said, sharply.  “And he smells heavily of fish.”

“They say fish oil is good for the brain,” Liam put in, finally getting his papers in order.

“Let’s not give him any weird ideas, please, Liam.  I personally hate seafood.  Remember, Styles, correlation does not imply causation.”

Harry chuckled as the cab rolled to a stop in front of what looked like several abandoned storage units with industrial garage doors.  The air brought a whiff of refuse with it as they all piled out of the taxi (Liam hurriedly paying the driver) and looked about at their surroundings.  Turned out Geffrye Street was less a street, and more a back alley.

“This is it?” Louis wrinkled his nose.  “Didn’t we have Professional Portraits of London last year?  They’re based in the City…”

“They’ve also raised their prices,” Liam said, “since one of the Middleton cousins started working there last fall.  And the orchestra had already decided to shift some extra funds… elsewhere...” he coughed nervously, and Harry looked down at the ground, scuffing his boots on the sidewalk.  He knew his salary was considerable.  Also knew that Grimshaw considered him more of a promotional investment than an artistic one.

“A lesser Middleton, eh?” Louis quirked his eyebrow.  “One that’s been in the tabs, I suppose?  What _is_ this country coming to...”

He stalked off toward the small plaque that read TRANSVISION STUDIOS - THRU DOOR TO ELEVATOR 3RD FLOOR, violin case tucked protectively under one arm and garment bag draped over the other.

“Right.  Well,” Liam gestured.  “On with the show, then, Maestro?”

Harry nodded and turned to follow Louis into the run-down building of crumbling red brick.  He could smell Regent’s Canal a few blocks away, and heard the cawing of gulls above his head.  “Shoreditch certainly is lovely this time of year,” he said, conversationally, to no one.  Louis hadn’t waited to hold the door for them.  The interior was a poorly-lit hallway that lead to a freight elevator, water stains on the carpet.  Liam was looking more and more nervous.

“Transvision Studios, huh?” Harry asked him, easy smile on his face to show that he was only teasing.

“They came very highly recommended,” Liam said, twisting one of his cuffs anxiously.  “Supposedly quite ‘hip.’  I think, judging from their website, they do a lot of avant garde business.  For, like, feminist magazines and things.  Quite a few naked people in their portfolio.”

They had just caught up with Louis, who was waiting impatiently at the entrance to the freight elevator.

“Naked photo shoots?” he quipped.  “Young Harold here should feel right at home.”

Harry felt the blush on his face almost before he’d registered what Louis had said, and then there was the clank of the gate, and he was being ushered onto the elevator by Liam.  There was an awkward silence as they rode up the three floors, Harry pressing the toe of his suede boot into the raised texture of the steel platform.  So Louis had looked up that Esquire article.  Interesting.

Very interesting.

The elevator gate opened again on a huge studio space with a gorgeous coved ceiling.  Several semi-circular windows rose up from the floor to about waist level and provided a view of the surrounding area and the nearby canal.  The walls were bare brick, the floor varnished hardwood.  A thin woman dressed in a black pantsuit with thick black glasses and hair pulled back into a severe bun was adjusting the lighting at one end of the studio, where a large, stark white backdrop had been set up.  Liam scurried over to her immediately and introduced himself as Louis ducked into a small side room with his garment bag.

Harry nodded to the other section leaders who were already there, and had already changed into formalwear.  Maria Santiago-O’Brien stood in a corner, hand on the neck of her cello, draped in an elegant, complicated-looking wrap and chatting amiably with Zayn Malik.  Nathan Sugiyama and Janet Ingersoll were also drifting around, Janet sucking on her oboe reed as though she were here to play instead of pose.  Gladys Howard looked stunning in a long, black beaded gown.  She was just getting up from the makeup chair at the back of the studio when Harry greeted her.

“Nice to see someone taking pride in their instrument,” he said, glancing down at her French horn, which was newly polished and gleaming.  It was a far cry from Niall’s dented, scratched embarrassment.  Never seemed to matter to him how much money he’d spent on a new horn -- within three weeks of him owning it, the thing would be banged up.

“Don’t you insult Mr. Horan to me, Harry Styles,” Gladys waggled a finger, tucking a grey curl behind her ear.  “I won’t have it.”

Harry snorted.  “But you insult him all the time!”

“That’s different,” she replied, holding back a smile.  “I’m his elder.  And he insists that the dents add texture.”

“Texture.”  Harry raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“Each and every one applied on purpose to improve the sound quality of the instrument.”

“It’s a good thing you two sit in the back,” Harry smiled.  He didn’t try to hide his amusement as he escorted Gladys over to watch the photographer set up her equipment.  Liam was flitting around, pointing to filters and light modifiers and asking what they were going to be used for.

“Mr. Styles,” he whipped around, “aren’t you dressed yet?  You’re in all the shots.”

“Changing room is…”  Harry was about to say “occupied,” but just as he turned to gesture at it, Louis Tomlinson stepped out and his voice died.  He’d seen Louis in a tux before, in Youtube videos that he had watched -- and rewatched -- in the name of professional research.  But that had been Louis on a small screen, lower half of his body cut off by the camera; this was Louis in the flesh, glasses folded up in his pocket, adjusting his white tie and self-consciously fixing his hair in the mirror by the makeup chair.  His eyes were ice blue, the sharp planes of his face beautiful and slightly fey.  He was stunning.

(And Harry couldn’t quite see under the tails, but he _knew_ Louis still had the unbelievable arse he’d spent long nights fantasizing about as a teenager.)

“Go on,” Liam prodded him gently in the direction of the changing room.  “Tux and a bit of makeup and we’ll be all set.”

“All set.  Yes.”  Harry nodded and tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.  He only shook himself out of his daze when he was alone in the dark little room, stripped down to his briefs with one leg in his tuxedo trousers.  He was attracted to Louis Tomlinson.  Very, very attracted.  Like, almost desperately fucking attracted.

_I guess some things never change._

“Right!  When do I strip?”  Louis was charging over to the photographer when Harry reemerged, speaking loudly, voice echoing off the curved ceiling.  “‘Cos I hear nude classical musicians are all the rage in America.  Gladys, do you think my violin will cover everything?  I can’t guarantee it!”

Harry felt a blush creep up his throat again as nearly everyone in the room started to chuckle and glance over at him with knowing looks.   _Yes,_ he thought to himself as a familiar feeling of slight humiliation washed over him, unearthing old memories.   _Some things really never change._

“Mr. Styles, let’s have you and Ms. Howard first.”

Harry let a makeup artist brush a bit of foundation over his face, and then he was led in front of the white backdrop.  He held his baton stiffly across his chest, as directed, Gladys standing close to him, just behind his left shoulder with her horn.

“Serious faces, please,” Liam said.  “Posture, Harry.”

Harry cleared his throat and stood up straight, letting the corners of his mouth drop and his cheeks smooth into a neutral expression.  He thought about conducting _Don Juan_ on opening night at the Barbican, conjuring up the intense focus needed to lead an orchestra through a polished performance.  The photographer snapped them from different angles, changing lenses on her handheld camera partway through.  Harry’s back was just starting to ache when Liam asked Nathan Sugiyama to step in.

They repeated the same series of shots with each of the section leaders in turn, Gladys playing a bit of the peaceful horn solo from Tchaikovsky’s 5th to keep them relaxed.  Harry felt a touch of wistful longing when Maria Santiago-O’Brien stepped up with her cello -- sometimes he missed having his own instrument constantly in his hands and between his legs, shaping rich phrases with his bow.  But what he had given up in direct involvement, he’d gained in purview...  Now he was responsible for shaping an entire program, whole pieces of music for the entire orchestra to perform -- no, to _live_ through.

It was an important job, and he loved doing it.  Sometimes he felt as though he were born to do it.

“Mr. Malik, please.”

Harry smiled at Zayn as he stepped into the shot.  They had a brief pretend swordfight with his baton and one of Zayn’s timpani mallets before Liam called for “a sense of _gravity,_ please; the LSO isn’t an orchestra for twelve-year-olds.”  Harry didn’t know Zayn Malik very well yet, but the meeting they’d had earlier in the week had been one of his more pleasant ones.  He could tell Zayn was laid-back and ready to take his direction seriously while still being completely dedicated to his work, and they’d formed a bit of an additional bond comparing their tattoos.  Also he was exceptionally handsome.  (Harry could never help noticing these things.)

“Closer together, please.  Crowd in.”

Zayn stepped up into Harry’s back, just behind his shoulder, mallet across his chest in an echo of Harry’s posture with his baton.  The photographer started snapping away, and out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed Louis standing off to the side.  He had been speaking with Janet Ingersoll (another one of those animated, kind-faced chats Louis always seemed to be having with other people) but was now studying Zayn and Harry closely, a small frown on his face.

A shiver ripped through Harry’s body as he felt Louis’s eyes on him.  He tried to ignore it, standing up as straight as he possibly could, face impassive as the photographer quickly finished up the set.

“Okay,” Liam called, and checked something off on a clipboard.  Harry took his time stepping away from Zayn, curious to see whether Louis would notice, whether his expression would change.  It grew sharper; Louis’s piercing blue eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s for a split second and then his face became unreadable again.  He nodded and said something to Janet, never having lost the easy thread of his conversation with her.  Harry felt embarrassed.

“Tomlinson, you’re up.”

And, right.  It was going to be Louis pressed into his back next.  Because that’s what they were here for.  Harry held himself stiffly as he waited for Louis to retrieve his violin and get into the shot, taking shallow gulps of air.  He felt the barest brush of fabric at the small of his back, and Louis’s hot breath on his neck.

“Not getting tired of this, are you?”

Harry struggled to keep his face still as the photographer took a few slow snaps.  “‘S fine,” he mumbled, through gritted teeth.

“I suppose you’re used to it, you big Hollywood celebrity.”

“Not really.”

Louis was holding himself just far enough away from Harry that they weren’t touching.  It was somehow even more maddening, this almost-sensation, than when they’d been pressed up against each other in the cab; Harry was distracted, his mind not quite there.  The photographer’s frown deepened as she moved around them, obviously not getting the shot she wanted.  Something was off.

Finally she dropped her camera.  “This composition isn’t working,” she said.

“No, no,” Liam smiled.  “The composition’s fine; it’s just what we want.  I’m sure you’ve got a few useable shots by now…”

But the photographer ignored him as Harry quickly stepped away from Louis, grateful for the breather.

“I want to try something confrontational,” she said, waving her hand vaguely between Harry and Louis.  “There’s a… _quality_ here.  I’m not sure what it is, but I want to explore it.”  She snapped her fingers.  “Black, please.”

Two of her assistants quickly took down the white backdrop and replaced it with one that looked as though it were made out of some sort of rich, dark velvet.  Liam held up a finger in protest, but was rebuffed.  He stood on the sidelines and watched helplessly as Gladys moved on from Tchaikovsky to the horn call in Wagner’s _Siegfried._

“I want spots behind them,” the photographer continued, “and I want to capture a bit of that graininess in the air.”

Harry had not realized that the air was grainy.  He stood, nervously shifting his weight, trying not to look at Louis.  He really just wanted this to be over.  He wanted to be back in his cozy office in St. Luke’s.  Gladys’s impromptu performance was giving him some new ideas about the horn part in _Don Juan,_ and he needed to make some notes before he forgot.

Then he planned to go home, take a bath, and wank himself into oblivion.

“Okay,” clapped the photographer, startling Harry out of his reverie.  “Now, I want you two to look at each other.”

She guided Harry’s shoulders so that he was in profile to the camera, opposite Louis and staring into his eyes.  He flinched as the bright spot to his left flipped on.

“You oppose each other,” she said, as she started to take a few exploratory shots, “but you are not enemies.  You _challenge_ each other…”  Harry gulped.  A light prickling sensation washed over his skin and he wondered if he looked as uncomfortable as he felt.  Louis was meeting his gaze easily, slight smirk on his face.  “... but instead of tearing yourselves down, you inspire each other to reach new heights.”

“Sounds dirty,” Louis grinned.

“Not as dirty as going online to look up nude pictures of your colleagues.”  Harry wasn’t sure where it had come from; that deep voice didn’t even sound like his.  But Louis blanched for a second, lips parting slightly in surprise.  “That’s quite perverted, actually, Tomlinson,” he added in a low murmur.

This time it was Louis who was blushing.

“Hold up your baton,” the photographer commanded.  “Like you did earlier, when you were messing about with Mr. Attractive Mallets.”

Harry followed her instruction.

“And you, hold up your bow.  This is a duel.”

Harry and Louis locked eyes, neither of them giving an inch.  Fingers tightened around both the baton and the bow.  Harry felt blood rush to his head as they stared at each other, thinking about how ever since he’d started at the LSO, Louis had made him feel young and unwanted and out of his depth.  He wondered briefly whether Louis had meant to do that, or whether it was just an unhealthy habit.

“Beautiful,” the photographer muttered, moving around them as she snapped away.  “So intimate.”

Harry’s heart hammered in his chest.  He felt too warm and too exposed, but he didn’t break eye contact.  Then, quickly and quite subtly, Louis cocked his wrist and slid the hard wood of his bow gently down the shaft of Harry’s baton.  The wood shivered in his hand as Louis stroked it, and Harry almost gasped.  The touch was so soft, sending a frisson of excitement up his arm and through his whole body.  No one else seemed to notice.  He bit his lip, gaze flicking down to Louis’s bow and back up again to his eyes, where he thought he saw a fleeting, playful gleam of flirtation.

“That’s a wrap!” the photographer called, and applause broke out from all quarters.  Harry’s hands dropped to his sides, shaking slightly.   _That was flirting.  Was that flirting?_

Louis turned to put his violin away, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  But it wasn’t an accident.  Harry _knew_ how much control Louis had over his wrist; he was a string player too.  He took a few deep breaths and turned to address Liam.

“You don’t have to use those,” he said.  “She got some of us in the pose Grimshaw wanted.”

Liam frowned, considering.  “No,” he said.  “I mean, I’ll have to show them to Grimmy, but…  They were pretty good.  He might like them.”

Harry nodded and turned away, confused and oddly energized.  He didn’t bother to change back into his work clothes, just grabbed his coat and his bag and stepped onto the elevator.   _I imagined it,_ he thought, testing out a strategy of denial as he rode down by himself.   _I must have imagined it.  Otherwise the rest of the world does not make sense.  Louis Tomlinson wouldn’t flirt with me.  Ha, ha, stop being ridiculous, please.  Stop being ridiculous.  Just go concentrate on your program.  Three weeks.  Three more weeks until Don Juan._

Harry groaned, still feeling jittery as he tugged the gate open and rushed down the hallway out into the sun.  He wondered how close the studio was to the nearest tube station.  He was just about to pull out his phone when a familiar junker rode up and shuddered into park.

“Haz!”

“Nialler,” Harry’s face broke into a wide grin.  “Did you come to pick me up?”

Niall scoffed, struggling to roll down the sticky window.  “As if.  Gladys ‘n me are going out for a stand partners dinner.”

“Where?”  Harry leaned over to peer into Niall’s car.  It was an ancient Vauxhall Astra from the early 2000s, its rear bumper tied on with rope and one headlight out of commission.  Crumbs, old LSO programs and stray food wrappers littered the interior, which smelled faintly of corn chips and valve oil.

“Sorry, sworn to stand partner secrecy.  Don’t even think of asking to join.”

“I wasn’t.”  Harry raised his eyebrows, noticing that Niall had a dress sweater on instead of his snapback.  “You look nice...”

Niall nodded, grinning.  “Looking’s free, Styles, but touching’ll cost ya.”  

Harry snorted as Niall started petting his sleeve.

“I’m serious.  This is cashmere.”

“Niall,” Harry licked his lips and leaned in a little closer, unsure quite what he wanted to ask.  “Does Louis ever --”

He was cut off by the sound of a door opening and a rush of voices behind him.  He straightened up and turned around to see Louis leading a knot of people out of the building.  He was grinning at something Gladys had just said, his eyes crinkling at the edges and his head thrown back in a bright laugh.  And that was really how Harry remembered him best at Interlochen -- at the center of a group of laughing friends, while Harry watched from the sidelines.

Niall leaned out the window and whistled approvingly.  “Gladdo, did you get your hair done?”

“You always notice,” Gladys smiled, slipping into the passenger seat and setting her horn in the back.  The beads of her dress tinkled as she pulled them in and shut the door behind her.

“Oi, Horan, I’m using my concertmaster privileges to commandeer your vehicle; could you drop me off home before you go do your weird wind instrument activities?”  Louis barrelled past Harry and shouldered his way into the car.  “I love you.”  He reached over the head rest and pinched both of Niall’s cheeks.

“You only love me for my wheels, Tommo, stop pretending.”  Niall batted Louis’s greedy hands away and tried to look stern.  “Bye, H.”

“Bye…”

Harry raised his hand in a listless wave as Niall peeled away, leaving him stuck in the middle of a sentence.  Everyone was gone -- even Liam had found a ride with someone.  So Harry dug out his iPhone and called up a map of London, accidentally tripping over his feet as he started walking south.  It was only a few blocks to the nearest Underground station.  February wind whipped past his ears and Harry shivered, vaguely registering the laughter of a group of denim-clad teenagers smoking on a street corner as he passed.  He realized he was still in his tux.

Alone and out of place, again.  It hadn’t been what he’d pictured.  Not in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the Valentine's Day angst!
> 
> Just for funsies [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KcCj0xfO3H8) are Torvill and Dean doing their historic, Olympics gold medal-winning, perfect-in-artistic-merit-scoring ice dance to Boléro. Trivia! There’s a time limit they had to be under, but they were some amount of seconds over on the length of their arrangement and they couldn’t cut it any further. The rules state that the time of the routine would begin when the first “skate touches the ice.” So you can see in the video how they got around that one.
> 
> [Here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUES5PA0ALg) the Tchaikovsky horn solo Gladys played at the photo shoot.
> 
> And [here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuGxh53KUac) the Wagner.
> 
> Last but not least, GO PACKERS!!! Draft Michael Sam, do it!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Harry's decided to ruin all of our lives by wearing a treble clef necklace...

_“Baaa-ba-da-da-da-da-da-dut-da-da-dahhh...”_

Harry stiffened in the lunch line.  It was spaghetti today, spectacularly overcooked noodles and tomato sauce with a wilting salad and a single piece of decent garlic bread.  He nodded a quick thanks to the lunch lady as she slopped it on his plate, then turned on his heel to get away from the obnoxious sound of _Boléro_ being sung in a high, husky voice.

It had been going on for almost a week, and Harry was tired.  Louis Tomlinson sure had a lot of friends; it seemed like everywhere Harry went, one of them was humming _Boléro_ under his breath and sniggering.  Some older kids had even started playing it in his cello sectional the other day, breaking down into laughter just as Harry felt tears spring up in his eyes.

 _At least Louis is paying attention to me,_ he thought, weakly.  He hated the part of himself that liked the sound of Louis’s voice, even when it was taunting him.  He couldn’t help it.  It felt awful.

No one sat by him.  Usually Harry ate with Marcus and the other counselors, but they were skipping lunch today to go into town for some grown-up reason.  He felt his ears burn, wondering if the entire dining hall was looking at him and laughing -- or worse, maybe, not noticing him at all -- and tried to just eat quickly so he could go find a quiet spot to practice.  His one-on-one with Dr. Anders was coming up that afternoon.  She was tough, but Harry liked her and always wanted to do well.  Then maybe he’d play tetherball with some of the juniors…  Harry felt like a baby hanging out with them, but at least nine and ten-year-olds aren’t intimidating.  They looked up to him.

Finally, his plate was almost empty.  As Harry was scraping stray noodles and soggy lettuce leaves off into the garbage, he felt a warm hand on his neck.  He jumped.

“Hey, easy, Styles.  Don’t get excited.”

Harry froze, recognizing the voice.  He took a deep breath, put his plate in the plastic tub and turned around.

Louis Tomlinson.  He was a little taller than Harry, soft brown hair falling into his eyes.  He smiled brightly, and Harry felt his heart stutter in his chest.

“You’ve got sauce on your face.”

“Oh,” Harry blushed ( _maybe he'll think it's a sunburn_ ), and dug a tissue out of his pocket, dragging it over his cheek a few times.  “Um, thanks, Louis.”

Louis swung an easy arm around Harry’s shoulder and steered him out through the big double-doors of the dining hall, onto a gravel path that lead toward the lakeshore.  “Come with me,” he said, breath hot in Harry’s ear.  “I’ve got a secret to tell you.”

Harry almost fainted.  He was distracted by the weight of Louis’s arm around his neck, hand squeezing his shoulder, his body heat, the way their hips were bumping together every other step.  “Oh?” he squeaked.  “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who can help.”

Harry’s mind raced.  He knew where they were headed, now.  Everyone in camp knew the little abandoned canoe shed on Duck Lake.  It was where couples went to snog.  Frantically, he tried to call up everything he remembered from when Gemma’d told him about her first kiss.  Soft lips were important.  As was fresh breath.

 _Shit, the garlic bread._  Harry started to perspire as the shed came into sight.  But maybe Louis had eaten it too.   _Then it would cancel out, right?_

He hadn’t told anyone he was gay.  He’d only started to tentatively think of himself that way a little over a month ago, anyway, and so far it was all theoretical.  So far it was all maybe.  So far it was _Louis, Louis, Louis_ running through his head practically every waking moment, like the damn repetitive theme in _Boléro_.  So far Harry was afraid to even try masturbating to… gay things.  Which meant it wasn’t official; he wasn’t officially gay.  He didn’t want to be.  Not yet.

“Louis…”  His voice was scratchy.  He gulped, as they stopped outside the door to the shed.

(The thing was, Harry could tell.  He was pretty sure Louis was gay, the way he walked and held himself, the way his wrist looked when he was smoothing out his hair.  Almost sure he thought about men, men’s lips on his body when he was alone at night in his bunk or the shower...)

Then Louis took his hand, and nodded toward the shed.  “Come on, love.  We need some privacy for this.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat; his knees turned to jelly as Louis lifted the latch and pushed the creaky door open.  Louis pressed a soft hand to Harry’s waist, guiding him into the dark, dusty interior.  “So, um…”  Harry whispered, once the door had shut behind them.  “What’s the secret?”

He could just see Louis smile in the dim light, before stepping even closer and cupping a hand to Harry’s ear.

“BAAA-BA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DUT-DA-DAH-DAHHH!”

Harry ran.  He burst out of the shed, tears staining his hot face and his eardrum throbbing, trying to block out the sound of Louis’s laughter behind him.  He stumbled up the dirt path around the lake, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.  The worst part, the _worst_ part was that he could still feel Louis’s touch on his skin.  And he knew he wanted it.

When he showed up to his one-on-one with Dr. Anders, face splotchy and fingers shaking, she didn’t say anything.  Interlochen wasn’t really a place where the staff cared about your feelings.  They were there to teach you music, or acting, or art…  Not that Harry would have told anyone about himself, even if they’d asked.  He made it through his lesson somehow, dumped his cello off at Dogwood and disappeared into the woods.  The leaves were whispering; the rocks were beautiful and silent.  He took a long hike, sat by the lake until the mosquitoes came out and the sun went down and he’d missed dinner.

_I wonder if he noticed I wasn’t there.  I wonder if anyone did._

Marcus was waiting for him on the dark porch of the cabin when he finally trudged back in, lurking in the shadows and visible only by the glowing tip of his cigarette.

“Hey bro,” he said, casually, as Harry climbed the steps.

“Hey,” Harry answered.

“Not hungry tonight?”  Marcus leaned on the rail, blowing smoke out of both his nostrils like a dragon.

“Nope.  I decided to go for a walk… I m-must have just lost track of the time.”  Harry’s hand was groping for the door handle, praying Marcus wouldn’t interrogate him further.  He shifted his weight uneasily, using the toe of his left shoe to scratch a mosquito bite on his right calf as he felt the counselor size him up.

“Okay,” he said.  “This time I’m not asking questions.  But if you come in after curfew again…”

“I won’t!” Harry squeaked.

“Good.  And hey, man, do me a favor; don’t tell anyone about the --” Marcus nodded toward the cigarette butt as he flicked it away over the porch rail.  “‘S not good for wind players.  I should really quit.”

“No problem,” Harry said.  “G’night.”  He slipped inside, shimmied out of his khaki shorts and polo and climbed up onto his top bunk in just his boxers.

The cabin was full of the sounds of sleeping boys.  Deep breaths, a few snores here and there.  Harry lay on his back and smelled the sweet night air that was wafting in through the metal window screen, bringing the music of chirping crickets with it.  He tried not to think about anything.  Just the rise and fall of his chest and the wash of the breeze over his hot skin...

Some time later, he was back in the shed.  Louis was touching him again, his hands were on his shoulders, and he was humming.   _“Baaa-ba-da-da-da-da-da-dut-da-da-dahhh...”_  They were swaying.

“Quit it…” Harry whined, shrugging his shoulders, trying to get rid of Louis’s hands.  But Louis just gripped him tighter, stepped closer and sang softly into his ear.

“I thought you liked this song, Styles,” he whispered.

Harry shivered.  “I used to.”

“I know you want me,” Louis said.  He grinned, smile illuminated by moonlight streaming in through broken slats in the ceiling.  “You’re so obvious.  God.”  He pressed his torso against Harry, walking him into the wall.

Harry shook his head.  No.  No, he didn’t.  He wasn’t really…  wasn’t _officially…_

“Admit that you want me, and I’ll give you a kiss.”  Louis licked his lips, and all Harry could do was stare helplessly.  He could feel the heat of Louis’s body against him, his hips starting to move in slow circles.  It was already painfully obvious how much Harry wanted it.  He knew Louis felt it too.

“Say it,” Louis demanded.  The grip of his hands was starting to hurt.  He slid them down Harry’s chest to clutch at his waist.

“I - I want you…”

Then their mouths were crashing together, Louis’s tongue hot and insistent and going way too fast for Harry.  His head was fuzzy, heart rabbiting as he tried to stay on his feet.  Louis helped to support him, strong arms circling him as they snogged feverishly.  Harry tried to give something back, but it was wet and confusing and he didn’t know what to do.

He was already so hard.  Just from a few minutes of kissing, just from touching Louis, just from being _around_ him.  Harry helped tug off his shirt, breaking their kiss for a moment, hands desperate to feel up the golden stomach and that fit chest he watched out of the corner of lidded eyes every morning on their way to the showers.  Louis’s biceps bunched as he reached up to rake his fingers through Harry’s curls, tugging lightly.  Erections tenting their shorts, grinding together and making them both gasp.   _So_ hard…

Then everything was wet.  Dark and wet.

Harry woke up.  He was lying on top of his sleeping bag, cock still twitching in his boxers, come splattered up to his neck.  It was light.  Probably a few minutes before reveille.

_Oh fuck, oh no…_

He cupped a palm over his throbbing dick and took a few shuddering breaths, trying not to make any noise.  A quick glance around the cabin; nothing was stirring, _thank God._  His eyes lingered on Louis, across the room on one of the other sweltering top bunks, mouth twitching in his sleep.  Just looking at him sent another stab of arousal through Harry’s gut.  A rush of shame followed it.

Quickly, he rolled over and mopped himself up with a stray sock that he found wedged between the bunk and the wall.  Then climbed into his sleeping bag and pretended to wake up at 6:45 with everyone else.

Later that day, he skipped one of his classes to call his mother in tears.

It was another nine months before he told her that he was officially gay.

 

Louis arrived at St. Luke’s early the morning after the photoshoot.  He huffed warmth into his hands before shoving his key in the lock and turning it.  He heard footsteps behind him -- blinking back into the morning light, he saw Harry Styles coming up the walk.

Louis waited, and held the door for him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Good morning,” Harry replied, with a stiff nod.

So, retrieving his compositions from Harry’s office would have to wait.  Again.  Louis tried to quell a surge of disappointment when Harry didn’t look back at him, or make any attempts at conversation as he swept down the hallway on his long legs.  Not that it was unexpected.  After all, Louis had been standoffish first.  He bit his lip, suddenly quite ashamed of how he’d been acting.  Bothering to care what other people thought of him hadn’t been high on Louis’s list of priorities for a very long time, not since he’d had to start fighting his peers for auditions and opportunities.  A don’t-fuck-with-me attitude and dedication to his craft had helped him keep seats that might otherwise have gone to other violinists ( _better violinists..._ ).  That was part of what he resented about Harry, he realized with a start -- his rise had seemed so effortless, characterized by his pleasant charm and the universal respect of the international community.  It threw all of Louis's scraping and clawing into an unfavorable light.

So it all came back to vanity and defensiveness, in the end.  And maybe a bit of fear.  Louis’s shoulders sagged.

“Styles,” he called, just as Harry was about to round the corner into his office.  “Wait up.”

He had told Grimshaw that friendship didn’t matter between a concertmaster and a conductor, but that trust did.  Louis hadn’t trusted Harry to lead the orchestra, but he’d given Harry no reason to trust him, either.   _That ends now,_ he told himself, firmly, as Harry blinked back at him from the doorway.   _For the good of the LSO._

“Can I ask you something?”

He’d been stewing all week, and of course it hadn’t occurred to him to just talk to Harry about it.  But, trust.  This was going to be a trust-building exercise.

“Sure,” Harry shrugged, face unsettlingly neutral.  “Come in.”

Louis entered, hugging Thunder to his chest and sitting down heavily in the rusty chair with the ripped seat.  Harry remained standing, hands behind his back and toes pointed inward.

“It’s about _Don Juan,”_ Louis clarified.  He didn’t care that he was holding his violin case like it was a stuffed animal; it made him feel safer.  If he had to be the one to take this step (and yes, he had to be; he knew that), then he would do it his way.

“Fine,” Harry said.  “What’s your question?”

“I want to know why you’re still taking it so slow in rehearsals.  If you think it’s because my section isn’t ready, I can assure you that they are.  They’ve improved a lot over the last two weeks.  We’re ready for performance tempo.”

Harry frowned.  “I have been going at performance tempo.”

Louis opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He squinted up at Harry.  “What?”

“The speed that we’ve been going in the full rehearsals?  That’s how fast we’re going to go when we play it for real.”  Harry spoke at a pace even more sluggish than his normal unhurried molasses, with just a hint of sarcasm that didn’t really become him.  “I want people to understand the contemplation and the self-reflection Don Juan is experiencing.  It’s a whole new interpretation.”

“But…  I didn’t realize… I’ve been taking them through it much faster in sectionals.”

Harry groaned, sighing as he sank back into his desk chair and primly crossed his legs.  “You know, Louis, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen if you’d just come to our weekly meetings.”

 _Shit._  Louis set down his violin.  He leaned forward, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck as he stared at the floor.  “Yeah, I know.”  He didn’t want to look up and meet Harry’s eye.  “I’m sorry.  I was afr -- an arse, and I should have done certain things differently.”

“Certain things…”  Harry had caught the vagueness of Louis’s apology.  The way he parroted the words, it felt like he was rubbing Louis’s face in his own cowardice.  For a moment it was like Louis could smell the fresh pine beams of Dogwood Cabin.

“Yes.  Certain things.”

There was a long silence, as if Harry were waiting for something else.  But Louis cleared his throat, leaned back and said, “This is the second apology I’ve made to you in what, two days?”

Harry nodded, finally cracking a small smile.

“Well, don’t get used to it, Styles.  And I’m not done talking about the tempo.”

“Oh?” Harry raised his eyebrows and glanced down at his watch.  “Um, I have to meet with Grimmy in a few minutes, can it wait?”

“You have me now,” Louis declared, rolling up his shirtsleeves and unzipping Thunder.  “Take it or leave it.”

Harry took it.

Louis prepped his bow and made a quick tuning pass of his strings.  “Now, I want you to listen to how well it works when it’s played quickly -- how it was _written_ to be played.”  Louis tucked the instrument under his chin and looked up at Harry expectantly.  Harry nodded, and Louis launched right in.  He played from memory, fingers moving fluidly as his hair flopped into his eyes.   _Should get a haircut soon,_ he thought, as he tore the piece apart.

He kept Harry’s gaze, locking eyes with him like he’d done the day before when the photographer asked them to.  Big, gorgeous green eyes.

Louis trailed off, blood pumping, breathing hard as he lowered his violin.  “Don’t you feel it?  He’s in a frenzy of guilt with himself.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, rolling his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger.  “But I’d rather his agony feel utterly drawn-out and painful,” he said.  “When you thought I was keeping it slow because I didn’t believe in your ability, I could hear the frustration in your playing.  It was exactly what I wanted.”

Louis scowled.   _Of course it was._

“Now,” Harry clapped him on the back and checked his watch again before shrugging on his coat.  “I can just catch Grimshaw at the Barbican, I think.  Thanks for the private show, but we’re doing it my way.”

He waited to usher Louis out of the office before locking the door behind him.  Just as Louis turned to leave, Harry nudged his hip.  “You should roll up your sleeves like that more often.  Show off your arms.”

Louis’s mouth dropped open.  “I’m not trying to… _seduce_ you or something, you know.”

Harry snapped his fingers, pretending to look rueful.  “Rats, and we’d make such a hot couple.”

“Dream on, Styles.”

“Catch you later, Tommo.”

*

The rest of the week, anyone who came to see Harry in his little office in St. Luke’s usually found Louis there with him, loudly objecting to the shape the program was taking.

“I don’t know if I like the _Divertimento_ coming right before _Pini di Roma._  It’s too mushy.”

“Mozart is mushy?”

“Maybe if you switched them.”

Harry rolled his eyes.   _“Louis,_ the programs have already been printed.  You know you’re just objecting to object.”

Louis opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, hand to his chest.  Apparently something in his expression was amusing, because Harry started giggling at him.   _Giggling._

“I am not.  These are legitimate artistic concerns.”

“You look affronted.”

“Well, I am affronted.  Mostly by your jeans, though; do you have any pairs with intact knees?  Is that some sort of Californian trend?”

Harry’s giggle turned into a full-throated laugh.  “Maybe it is, what’s so bad about that?”

“Oh, nothing.  I should try harder to keep up with the times, maybe cut out some holes in my shirt.  Around my nipples.”

“Heyyyyy, I thought we agreed no seducing.”

It was the same every day.  Louis always barging in at odd times, waving a score in Harry’s face, or following him down the hall like a small terrier yapping at the heels of a calm sheepdog.  “The way you’re making the transition from the first mistress, _my_ violin solo, back to the main theme is insanity, Styles!  Insanity!”  And: “It’s called a _Divertimento;_ it’s like, a little break from the heavy stuff!  It’s not supposed to come first on the program!”  And, when Harry refused to budge: “The inside of your mind must be so weird.”

But always -- over the lunch hour, on coffee breaks -- the argument swung back around to the tempo of _Don Juan._

“It’s a slow-building, festering collection of sins, Louis.  Not a mad dash to the death cadence.”

“Look, Harry, you can inject emotion without compromising the entire concept, the _integrity_ of the piece.  The Don is clearly out of his mind.  Out of control!  Why are you stealing my curry?”

“Because you’re sharing it with me.”

“No I’m --”

“Sharing is caring, Louis.”

*

“Please, H, at least use a fork.”

They were accidentally eating lunch together again.  Harry had listened politely to Louis’s complaint about his handling of the nightingale theme in the Janiculum Hill section of _Pini di Roma,_ and was now absentmindedly humming along to Don Covay on his laptop speakers whilst picking at Louis’s food, much to Louis’s annoyance.

“Have mercy,” he sang, as he used his long fingers to scoop up the slippery noodles in Louis’s pasta salad.  It was tricolor rotini, and for some reason he was only interested in eating the green ones.   _Only Harry Styles,_ Louis growled internally.   _Literally only Harry Styles could be this ridiculous.  And this intensely wrong about a nightingale._

“Have mercy, baby.”  Harry’s voice was so deep, always sounded like he had just woken up; the sort of voice Louis could imagine in the kitchen on Saturday mornings, fiddling with a coffee machine and making egg on toast.  “Have mercy on me…”

Louis rolled his eyes.  “Valery was never this infuriating.”

“Infuriating?”  Harry blinked at him, spiral noodle still hanging over his lip.  He slurped it up obscenely, bobbing his throat, and then proceeded to lick Italian dressing off each of his fingertips in succession.  “Me?  I inspire fury?”

“Well.  You’re very frustrating,” Louis amended, guts grinding in annoyance.  Why was he even here, anyway?  They weren’t talking about the music anymore; he could have left fifteen minutes ago and eaten lunch by himself in a practice room, or outside with Zayn in the thawing garden.

“And you’re very bossy.  You like bossing me around.”

Louis raised a thin eyebrow.  “I’ve found that many people misuse that term around me.  They _say_ ‘bossy,’ but they _mean_ ‘correct about everything.’”  He spread a napkin primly across his lap and swatted Harry’s large hands away from the rest of his lunch.

Harry chuckled, leaning back and twisting his hips slightly in his swivel chair.  “So were you this, erm, _correct_ around Valery, then?”

“Nope.”  Louis popped his lips around a black olive, which he had put in his mouth via plastic cutlery, like a civilized person.  (The effect of these refined manners was immediately ruined when he started talking and chewing at the same time, jabbing his empty fork at Harry’s face because of course he couldn’t help himself.)  “I liked Valery; Valery listened to my opinions.”

“I listen to your opinions.  You like me.”

“No, and no again, Styles.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he spread his arms out wide.  “What am I doing right now?  Why did you practically jimmy the door off my office to get in here during my forgotten classics of American R&B break?”

“You haven’t implemented one suggestion of mine since I stopped being a right arse.”

“Ah,” Harry held up a finger.  “But I’ve _listened_ to all of them.”

“That is… technically correct.”  Louis’s eyes narrowed as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

“The best kind of correct.”  Harry’s answering smile was dazzling.  He clearly thought he’d made some sort of witty comment.  

Louis rolled his eyes for the hundredth time as Clarence Carter came up on Harry’s R&B playlist.   _Can you slip away…  Slip away…  Oh, I need you..._  Where did Harry even find these old chestnuts, anyway?  Louis hadn’t listened to pop music since autotune had become a thing.  Opera and chorales only, please.  Not that this stuff was terrible, strictly speaking, but Louis would never admit it.  (He didn’t notice that his right toe was tapping in time with the beat.)

“Look at you,” he said, “always so chuffed with yourself.”

“You like me.”

“I’m trying to _save you_ from your own bizarre impulses.  And you should really be thanking me for interrupting your B &B loafing period.”

“Forgotten classics of American R&B break.”

“Whatever.”  Louis waved his hand over the music, unconcerned.  “You should be fucking pleased with me.”

“Why?”

“Because!”  Louis let out a breathy laugh, like it was obvious.  “The only reason I’m spending all of my free time in here _with you_ instead of out somewhere enjoying myself is that I’m so fucking dedicated to my job!  Trust me, Styles, other conductors would cut off whole limbs to have a concertmaster that’s as involved as I am.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck and lowered his eyes, toeing at the ground.  “That’s the, uh… only reason?”

Louis didn’t catch the hesitance, the slight question in Harry’s voice.  He nodded decisively as he settled back in his chair, crumpling his napkin and tossing it over his shoulder straight into the bin.  “Saving your ass.  Saving _Don Juan._  I am the hero of the LSO.”

“Now who’s chuffed with themselves?”

“Shut it.”  Louis popped open a bag of crisps, shoved one in his mouth and then offered the bag to Harry.  “Here,” he mumbled.  “Dessert.”

Harry dug around in the bag up to his wrist, apparently looking for the most perfectly intact crisp.  “I think you like me,” he said, finding an acceptable one at last.   _Oh God,_ thought Louis, _he’s going to start licking himself again._  “I think the great Valery Gergiev was getting boring and complacent and smelling more and more of tuna with each passing season, and I think that you do enjoy arguing.  I bet you’d feel let down if I gave in, wouldn’t you?  Tell me I’m wrong.”

Their knees knocked together, and suddenly Louis realized he was staring at Harry’s crotch.  Harry was wearing another pair of skintight jeans -- he’d run out of nice slacks in the past week or so, or (more probably) he’d decided everyone was comfortable enough with him now to tolerate his weird dress sense in rehearsals without complaint.  Louis could barely see the outline of Harry’s dick in the worn, black denim.  He licked his lips without thinking.  It was always _there,_ tucked carefully to the left.  When Harry stood on the podium to conduct, it was directly in Louis’s eyeline and he could pretend to read the music while playing from memory and looking straight at it.  He couldn’t fucking stop himself, no matter how often he tried to ignore the itch to just _stare,_ tried to tear his eyes away and focus on his job.  Partly it made him angry, because Harry Styles was so utterly absurd.  And partly it made him wonder what it would smell like if he put his face down there right now and nuzzled the warm bulge...

Louis groaned internally.   _Stop it.  Fuck, this isn’t supposed to be a thing._  Then he coughed and flicked his gaze up to meet Harry’s eyes.  He’d clearly noticed Louis staring; his pupils were blown.  His head was tilted, and he was looking at Louis questioningly.  As though…  Shit, as though he knew what Louis was fantasizing about and would be up for it.

_Okay, this is dangerous.  Fuck, you need to get laid.  You just need to get laid; it’s been months, you know you’d regret it immediately if you slept with him, you’re so fucking horny just… just don’t even think about it._

“Sorry,” Louis laughed, shaking his head and brushing a few fingers over his forehead.  “I completely blanked out for a second there, just thinking about the nightingale thing again.  I swear I wasn’t…”  He was.  He had been.  But he was a good liar.

“Oh,” Harry said, a bit quickly.  “Of course, yeah, no.  I didn’t think so.”

“Right.  Well.”

Louis stood up, surreptitiously wiping sweaty palms over his hips before grabbing his violin case and moving toward the door.  He was almost out of the room when he heard Harry say, “Wait...”

“Yes?”  Louis fixed his fringe and turned around, biting his lip.  He just wanted to leave.  Leave, leave, leave, lock himself in his practice room and forget he’d ever met Harry Styles.

“Would you like to maybe…”

“Tomlinson!”  Louis yelped as the door swung open, hitting him in the shoulder as Grimshaw bustled into the tiny office.  “And Styles!  The two stars of our new ad campaign; look at these mock ups!”

Louis swallowed dry, blood pounding at his pulse points as he watched Grimshaw pull a sheaf of glossy pictures out of his messenger bag and lay them out on Harry’s desk.  He inched closer, standing on his tiptoes to peek over Grimmy’s shoulder at them.

“At first I was unsure about the composition of the shots, but they’re actually _bril._  So much tension!  See, here’s the cover of the mailings and this one’s going to be the billboard...”

Louis’s heart sank.  They were all pictures of him and Harry, the last ones of the day.  One look at his face and anyone could see how much Louis had been gagging for it.  His mouth was slightly open, eyelashes fanned low over his cheeks in a seductive expression.  Shit shit shit, he hadn’t meant to look like _that,_ hadn’t realized...  Louis could lie to himself all he wanted, but there on the desk was concrete proof, literally laid out in black and white, of how big a slut he’d be for Harry’s dick.  And his boss was looking at it.  It was going to be twenty feet high on a _billboard_ for Christ's sake, all of London would see it!  But somehow the worst, most embarrassing part of the whole thing was Harry's satisfied smirk as he gazed down at the pictures.  Like he might know, now, just how much power he could have over Louis.  That was fucking terrifying.  Louis felt his body start to close in on him.

“They’re great, aren’t they Lou?”  Harry turned to him with a big, friendly grin at exactly the wrong time.

“Yeah.  Excellent use of the resident figurehead celebrity, eh, Grimshaw?” Louis said, in an acidic voice.  “Creatively the season might be a write-off, but we paid good money for that face.”

He snapped the last word off into awkward silence, and then it was as though Louis were watching all of Harry’s hopes and dreams crumble at once.  He went to shocked to hurt in seconds, his whole body sagging -- Louis saw tears start to well in Harry’s eyes and felt a familiar, uncomfortable sting of recognition.   _Dammit.  Again, Louis?_   _Did you have to…_  Regret washed away the black knot of defensive anger in the pit of his stomach almost immediately.  Awful, sick regret.

“Well…”  Grimshaw chuckled nervously, glancing between them, as though he couldn’t quite figure out whether it was an in-joke.

Harry managed a weak laugh.  “Right,” he said.  “Right, Lou.”

Louis had finally let stupid, petty embarrassment turn him into the person he’d never wanted to go back to, the one he barely let himself think about as an adult because it was too painful.  Little Napoleon of the Violins.  Bully.  And Harry was just accepting it from him.

He turned on his heel and sped out of the office, took the tube home and tried not to look at himself in the mirror.

Harry could see his sister from across the gallery.  The lighting used to enhance the artwork was a clean white, so bright that he could see the tension in her brow from thirty feet away.  She was standing alone by the bar with a vodka tonic in hand, alternatively staring at her feet and then awkwardly glancing around as though she was actually interested in the hanging pictures.  Harry might have laughed in rueful endearment if he wasn’t feeling like such a shit.

In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been the brightest of ideas, bringing Gemma as his plus one to the first LSO fundraising dinner of the season.  A willfully ignorant miscalculation on his part, really, given that he had yet to be introduced to most of the orchestra’s biggest patrons.  Almost the moment they were through the door, Grimshaw had rushed over and taken Harry by the elbow, guiding him over to a group of stately looking women in dresses made of varying types of brocade fabric.  Gemma had been left in coat check still holding both of their coats.  Or Harry had abandoned her there.  However you wanted to look at it.

He glanced down at his watch and tried not to wince.  Still a full thirty minutes of cocktails before they sat down to dinner, and he didn’t see an opportunity to extract himself from the conversation he was having with Amelia and Charles Frasier-Lind presenting itself any time soon.  Not that they weren’t perfectly interesting people.  (People who happened to make enormous yearly donations to the orchestra’s endowment, if Harry had heard Grimmy correctly when he’d hissed in his ear right before introducing them.)  It was just that he could see Gemma out of the corner of his eye, crossing her arms over her chest and sighing slowly, checking her own wristwatch.   _Netflix, she’d mentioned wanting to watch something on Netflix.  She could be watching Netflix right now._

“We spent the summer in New Hampshire, last year,” Amelia was saying.  They’d been discussing Harry’s recent time in America, all politely pretending the country wasn’t absolutely enormous.  “The White Mountains.  It was gorgeous.”

Harry nodded, smiling.  “That’s what I’ve heard.”   _Where is Niall fucking Horan when you need him?_  Harry could kill Niall for his normally awe-inspiring ability to worm his way out of coming to this type of event.  If Niall had shown upon on time, he probably would have taken Gemma to the back of house.  They could have joked around with the catering staff and stolen full bottles of wine and eaten entire trays of mini spanakopita.  She would’ve loved that.

“Should I really be coming to this thing, H?” Gemma had asked on the cab ride over, smoothing her skirt under her coat and tugging at her earrings to make sure they were still there.  “I’ll just end up standing in the corner, having too many petits fours and drinking too much vodka.”

Harry had shaken his head.  She was visiting for the week and Harry wanted to see as much of her as possible; he found her presence so comforting.  “Don’t worry,” he said, “they’re having those water chestnuts wrapped in bacon thingies, instead.  Can’t have too many of those...”

She’d rolled her eyes.

Selfish.  Harry had been selfish.

“Oh, Mr. Styles!  Have you met Agatha Diversey, yet?” Amelia asked, as a handsome woman with close cropped gray hair joined their circle.  “Agatha is on the board at St. Luke’s.”

“Call me Harry, please,” he said, smiling as he stepped forward and extended a hand to shake.

“Call me Taggie, then, Harry,” Agatha replied, her eyes warm.  She gestured to the woman who appeared at her side, sliding an arm around her waist.  “This is my partner, Louise.”

Louise clucked a _tsk_ of protest under her breath.  She raised her brow at Agatha expectantly.  

Taggie rolled her eyes and sighed, “Everyone calls her Petey.”

“Petey?” Harry asked, as he turned toward Louise, reaching to shake her hand as well.

“Louise Petersheim,” she said, by way of explanation.  Her grip was pleasantly firm under soft, paper thin skin.  She shook her head and did an eye roll of her own, leaning in conspiratorially.  “She acts like she’s humoring me...  I’ve been Petey since I was eight.”

“Eighteen more like,” Taggie said with an affectionate snort.  “She decided to reinvent herself at university.  ‘Everyone calls me Petey.’   _Sure_ they do!”

Petey was laughing openly now, still shaking her head as she elbowed Taggie in the ribs.  “It’s lovely to meet you finally, Mr. Harry Styles.”

Taggie grinned.  “We saw you play in Chicago ages ago, love.  You couldn’t have been a day over twenty.”

“Not even!  Do you remember?” Petey asked.  “The Saint-Saëns concerto…  We’ll certainly never forget.”

Harry smiled, thoroughly charmed and more than a little bit flattered.  “I-I do,” he said, rubbing a thumb across his forehead, trying not to smile to widely.  “I do remember that.”

Petey held up a hand, the one that wasn’t clutching a glass of wine white.  “Not that we don’t appreciate your conducting --”

“We certainly do,” Taggie cut in, looking Harry right in the eyes, her expression stern.

“You were wonderful on cello, though,” Petey went on, reaching out and batting at Harry’s forearm.  “So wonderful.  It was --”

“Sensual,” Taggie finished for her, nodding gravely.  They turned toward each other and cackled in delight when Harry went pink, biting his lip and ducking his head slightly.

“We’re quite excited for the season, Harry.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said, letting a real grin spread across his face.  The two ladies launched into a spirited discussion of the gastrointestinal ailments of their ancient lurcher Kiddo, after that.  It was far more amusing than Harry would have expected, especially given the Frasier-Linds’ obvious distaste, to the point where it was another ten minutes before he remembered Gemma.  Stricken at how long he’d managed to forget about her, Harry whipped his head around to look over to where she’d been standing, only to find she’d disappeared.

“If you’ll excuse me...” he said apologetically, words trailing off as he drifted away to look for her.  He was seized by a mild panic.  What if she’d felt so bored and uncomfortable and fed up with him that she’d taken a cab home without telling him?  He was mentally preparing a groveling apology, planning out how he’d make it up to her.  He could just see her in his head, wrapped up in a duvet on the couch at his loft, glaring at him when he finally got home.  Or even worse, pretending she wasn’t upset at all.

“I will promise to bake biscuits…” he murmured to himself, distracted.  He stood on his tiptoes at the edge of the room, surveying the crowd to see if he could spot the top of her head.  “With her.  Together at the same time.  We will bake them together... as siblings.  Sibling biscuit makers...”   

Harry saw no sign of her in the section of the gallery that had been set up for the cocktail hour.  If she’d just nipped off to the loo she’d have been back by now.  He skirted around one of the false walls that displayed artwork, venturing further into the event space, toward the opposite end where tables had been laid out for dinner.

That was where he finally found her, loitering amidst the tables, beaming, her head thrown back in silent but genuine amusement.  Harry stopped short at the edge of the dining area.  He blinked, and felt the hair on his forearms stand up.

Louis Tomlinson was at Gemma’s side.

He had a light hand on her shoulder, just a rest of the fingertips really, his head bent gently toward hers.  Harry could only see him in profile, but there was a small, almost secretive smile on his face and a crinkle at the side of his eye as though he was actually suppressing a grin.  Louis gestured to the place settings on one of the tables with the Heineken bottle he was holding and then leaned in closer to whisper in Gemma’s ear.  They broke apart giggling at whatever Louis had said.  Gemma gave him a playful little shove and shook her head like he was too much.  Louis just shrugged impishly in response, eyes crinkling even more.  He looked beautiful.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t.  He continued to stand slack-jawed instead, completely unsure of what to say, or if he should say anything at all.  He was relieved that Gemma was comfortable and engaged and clearly having a good time.  He truly was.  But he should have been delighted by it, thrilled by this turn of events, and he knew he was not.  Harry felt a shimmer of embarrassment run through him at the realization that his heart had actually sunk when he first saw the two of them together.  That his most immediate reaction to his sister’s happiness had been a combination of disappointment and ( _oh God_ ) jealousy.

 _Pathetic,_ Harry thought, as Louis and Gemma continued to laugh.  It was distressing, and distressingly familiar, the confusing muddle of emotions that Louis always seemed to throw him into.

_Likes your sister just fine.  Likes everyone else just fine.  Doesn’t seem to want to like you, though, does he?_

He closed his eyes against the memory of Louis’s cutting tone the other day in his office when Grimmy had shown them those ad mock-ups, the chilly dismissiveness of it.  Louis’s interactions with Harry had been far less confrontational since then, sober and a little restrained somehow, and Harry’d had fleeting thoughts about how it might possibly be Louis’s way of showing remorse.  Fleeting hopes, maybe.  He could never seem to get a handle on it all.  Couldn’t get himself to stop feeling the low-grade dread of impending rejection he always got from being around Louis.

_Maybe it’s time you admitted to yourself just how much you want him._

Harry was jolted out of his reverie at that, spurred into action by the bolt of fear it shot through him.  He felt an absolutely imperative need to walk forward with purposeful strides, as if by moving his body he could distance himself from a thought as well.

“I was afraid you’d gone home,” he said, clearing his throat as he stepped into the maze of tables and hoping he sounded much more collected than he felt.

Gemma smiled when saw him, but arched a brow.  “Oh?” she said, coolly, “And would you really have blamed me?”

Harry shook his head, chuckling contritely.  “No,” he said.  “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, I understand.”  She nodded toward Louis, who was looking between the two of them with interest.  “You should really thank Mr. Tomlinson here for rescuing me.  He was just telling me how a few strategically rearranged place cards could really liven things up.”

Louis smiled at Harry, a mischievous glint in his eye.  “It’s simple really, put the Cartwrights by the Frasier-Linds,” he said, gesturing to their separate tables.  “Instant powder keg.”

Harry laughed.  From what he’d heard, Miriam Cartwright demanded copious amounts of champagne at every fundraising event, be it cocktail party, luncheon, breakfast, or children’s concert, to the point where most of the musicians referred to her affectionately as Bubbles.  (Niall, apparently, right to her face, to his delight and hers.)  He could imagine that Amelia Frasier-Lind might find it all a bit uncouth.

“So this is your sister, then?” Louis asked, his easy smile making Harry’s chest ache slightly.

Harry nodded, biting his lip.  Gemma sighed theatrically, like it was such a burden.

“I thought as much, even before she introduced herself,” Louis said, a hint of pride in his voice as his gaze flickered over Harry’s face.  “Same eyes.”

Harry’s head snapped to Louis and he flushed immediately, an adrenalized tingle of surprise zipping down his arms and out into his hands.  He looked away again as quickly as he could, bowing his head to mask the intensity of his response.

He needn’t have bothered.  Louis was already looking past him, over Harry’s shoulder to where Gerald Courtenay was fussing with his viola on the makeshift stage at the front of the room.  

“Shit,” Louis swore, looking down at his phone to check the time.  “I have to get ready to play.”  He turned to Gemma, touching her arm.  “It was lovely meeting you.”  He nodded to Harry, “Styles...”

Harry made a faint humming noise of acknowledgment, still staring at a spot on the ground.  Louis was threading his way through the tables over to where he’d set his violin; Harry could tell by the movement of his voice.  “Calm down, Gerry!  I’ll be there in a second…  No, I have not seen Eleanor.  I’m her stand partner, not her keeper.”

Gemma cleared her throat.

Harry raised his head and met her eyes, blushing again at what he saw there and letting out a quiet groan of embarrassment.  “Please don’t start.”

“I haven’t said a thing!” she protested, eyes widening with all the pretense of innocence.  She was just barely holding back a knowing smile, though, he could tell.

He dropped his gaze to the floor again, pulse still beating color into his cheeks.  The embarrassing thrill he’d gotten from hearing Louis’s words had gone a little sour inside of him, curdling into anxiety.  He’d felt so out of his depth so often lately.   _Louis._  God.  Louis always put him on edge.

Gemma made a muted noise of sympathy after observing him for a moment.  She laughed, soft and kind.  “Oh, come on, you,” she said, putting a comforting hand on the back of his neck.  “Let’s go find our seats.”

*

As part of the main draw of that evening’s event, the LSO had promised a brief, intimate preview of what could be expected from the upcoming season.  After guests had been seated for dinner, but before it was served, eight of the orchestra’s very best musicians were to perform the first three movements of Mozart’s _Divertimento No. 15 in B-flat major._  (Niall cut it rather fine, showing up with ten minutes to spare and narrowly saving Grimshaw from having a massive coronary.)  Nick introduced Harry before the performance, letting him get away with a short speech.  Just a few words about how excited he was for the opportunity and the program he’d been able to set, a raise of his glass and a dimpled smile, and then Harry was turning it back over to Grimmy to introduce the musicians.  He’d been looking forward to being part of the audience for once, since Louis Tomlinson would be running the show as first violin.  From the very first note of the Allegro, Harry was not disappointed.  The small ensemble were technically flawless, of course, but there was also a wonderfully palpable joy in the way they played the piece together, a gorgeous swell of energy that left the crowd hushed between movements.

Harry shut his eyes after a while, intent on listening without looking, and still all he saw was Louis.  Spotlit in Harry’s mind, Louis radiated more of that gorgeous energy than anyone else.  It seemed to shimmer around him, enhanced by how well he harnessed it, by his complete control of his instrument and of the performance itself.  Harry could picture Louis perfectly.  The well-oiled motion of his delicate bow hand, the soft sweep of his hair across his forehead, the purposeful set of his shoulders in his tailored suit.  Harry opened his eyes again only to be further transfixed.

Louis Tomlinson’s abilities had been a large factor in Harry’s decision to come to the LSO, maybe _the_ deciding factor, if he was honest.  And still, even after watching him play in rehearsals for weeks, Harry hadn’t quite understood the scope of Louis’s talent.  It made Harry shift breathlessly in his seat, the realization that in spite of how highly he’d rated the violinist’s skill beforehand, he’d somehow managed to underestimate him.  It was both heady and a little disconcerting, the way it added to the creeping feeling that he’d never be able to get a handle on Louis.  That he’d barely even begun to fathom him at all.

“That was amazing,” Gemma whispered, leaning into Harry during the standing ovation following the performance.  “Louis is amazing.”

Harry swallowed and nodded, clapping in a bit of a daze.  He managed to shake it off for most of dinner, participating in conversation and laughing like his usual, relatively charming self.  He only let his eyes track over to Louis’s table once, watching as Louis added cream to the coffee that came out after dessert, accidentally becoming fixated on the fine bones of his wrists.  Didn’t matter that he’d only allowed himself that one glance; he’d been hyper-aware of Louis’s presence the whole time, anyway.  This entire event was starting to feel like a humiliating exercise in which the horrifying extent of Harry’s preoccupation with Louis Tomlinson was repeatedly revealed to him.

“Yes, thank you,” he said distractedly, positioning his cup so a server could pour him some coffee of his own.

Gemma laughed, elbowing him.  “He’ll have regular,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What?” Harry blinked, jerking back to reality.  “Oh, yes…  Sorry…  Regular, thank you.”

 _There you go again,_ Harry thought, brooding into his coffee after it was poured.  He was greatly relieved when Niall strolled up, not wanting to deal with any more knowing looks from Gemma.

“Gemma Styles, as I live and breathe.”  He set his half-full pint on their table and opened his arms wide for a hug, absolutely beaming.

“Nice of you to make an appearance,” Gemma grumbled, but her eyes were dancing as she stood up and folded herself into his embrace.

“Listen, lady,” Niall said, nudging Harry’s chair with his knee, “I’d have been here ten minutes before anyone else, waiting patiently for your arrival by the bar if your shit brother had bothered to tell me you were coming.”

Harry let out an indignant squawk of protest, which only prompted them to laugh harder than they already were.  He rolled his eyes.

“You two are comin’ out after, right?” Niall asked, merrily.  He’d loosened his tie and abandoned his jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  He looked relaxed and happy, and Harry was jealous.

“Oh, I don’t know, Nialler,” Harry sighed, stretching in his seat.  He was worn out, by his own heavy thoughts and from overexposure to human beings.

“Aw, c’mon!” Niall said, brows knitting in disapproval.  He directed his appeal to Gemma.  “There’s a pub around the corner, best damn jukebox.  We’ll play Night Moves!”  He raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession and then started to sing, torquing his body side to side in a crude approximation of dancing.  “Workin’ on our night moves… tryna lose those awkward teenage blues!  Workin’ on our night moves…”

Harry pulled a face, wrinkling his nose.

Niall pulled one back.  “Okay, fine, loser,” he said, shaking his head.  “If Seger won’t sway you, I’m not sure what else I can do.”  He slotted an arm around Gemma’s shoulder.  “C’mon, Gems, allow me to escort you away from this crab patch.  I’ll introduce you to my stand partner; she’s the love of my life, she’ll be yours too!”

They left Harry at the table by himself, staring blankly at the ostentatious centerpiece and fiddling with a cloth napkin that was still in his lap, lost in thought.  He almost started, several minutes later, when he felt a hand gently touch his shoulder.  Harry took a deep breath and collected himself before he turned around, expecting to see Grimshaw with a wide smile on his face, eager to introduce him to yet another set of very important orchestra patrons.

It was Louis Tomlinson.  Of course it was.

Louis was standing with a well-coifed, middle-aged woman who’d been seated next to him at dinner.  Harry blinked up at them dumbly, feeling a little like Louis had manifested right out of his tortured psyche.

“Styles,” Louis said, a tentative smile on his face.  He shifted his weight from side to side and tugged at one of his ears.  “Uh,” he cleared his throat.  “Styles, this is -- this is my mother, Jay Tomlinson,” he gestured to her.  “She wanted to meet you.”

It took Harry a second to get into gear, surprised as he was by this new information.  “Oh!” he said, at last, jumping to his feet and extending a hand.  “Oh.  Uh, Harry Styles.  Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Tomlinson.”

He looked back and forth between them, trying to subtly catalogue all the similarities in his mind.   _Same dark honey hair.  Same assertive bearing.  Same blue, blue eyes._

“Jay’s fine, dear,” she said, smiling and looking him up and down in appraisal.  “Lovely to meet you, too.  I was absolutely delighted when I heard you’d be conducting here at the LSO.”

“Oh…  Thank you,” Harry said slowly, sneaking another glance over at Louis, who he by now knew must have had the exact opposite reaction upon hearing about his appointment.  Louis remained impassive, chewing on the inside of his lip.

“I’m the Artists Manager at Hallé,” Jay said.  “We’d _die_ to get someone of your caliber up there for a guest spot…  I’ve been tracking your career for ages!”  She nodded over at Louis.  “Ever since you and Louis were at that camp together.  You must have been, what?  Fifteen?”

Harry nodded, blushing at the reference, his eyes flicking over to Louis again, wondering immediately if the matching pink he thought he saw on Louis’s cheeks was imagined.   

“You were so impressive at that mid-summer concert,” Jay went on.  “Miles ahead of Louis at interpretation, and at such a young age.”

“Oh,” Harry said, squirming, a little embarrassed.  “I… I don’t know about that.”  He didn’t dare risk another glance at Louis, though he was desperate to.

“It's all right, dear.  It's true,” she said, with light laugh.  “He’s always had a bit of difficulty with emotionality.”

Louis let out a single, bleak laugh at that, shifting uncomfortably next to her, his eyes fixed on the floor.  

Harry awkwardly cleared his throat, thoroughly embarrassed now.  “Well, that was certainly a great performance tonight,” he pointed out, carefully.

Jay gave a tight chuckle and raised her eyebrows.  “Yes, well…  Eleanor sure likes to put on a show.”

“Mum,” Louis said under his breath, wincing.

“All right, sweetie, I’ll stop embarrassing you.  We should head out, anyway.”  She leaned forward to pat Harry on the arm.  “I’m very, very excited for the season, Mr. Styles.  I can’t wait to see what you bring out in them.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured again, looking up to meet her gaze.  Maybe her eyes weren’t as quite as blue as Louis’s after all.  “Was nice to meet you,” he added, weakly, as they turned to go.

“G’night, Styles,” Louis said, glancing up at him with a subdued smile on his face.  He looked almost somber, really, and Harry’s heart clenched in his chest at the sadness he thought he saw flicker through Louis’s expression before it settled into a detached sort of resignation.

“Good night...” he whispered back, voice tight with unexpected emotion.  His hand twitched at his side with a suppressed urge to reach out for Louis as he walked away.  

Harry thought about the comparative warmth of his own mother and felt guilty for it, not wanting to judge.  He suddenly missed hugging her, his mum, missed how her shoulder blades always felt so deceptively fragile under his hands.  She was far away, though, in Holmes Chapel, so Niall and Gemma would have to do for now.  Harry wandered off to find them, Louis Tomlinson’s sad eyes haunting him as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been commenting and leaving kudos! We looooove the feedback.
> 
> I've recreated a portion of Harry's Forgotten Classics of American R&B playlist [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--wgHJfGCns&list=PLTxxBGawMErZltiz0UfxHoEDW-FIBj_lT) (yes, there's a lot of soul on there too).
> 
> [Here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ue9I3eEySho) Mozart's Divertimento No. 15 in B-flat major, K.287.
> 
> [The Hallé](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hall%C3%A9), where Jay works, is an important symphony in Manchester.
> 
> [Night Moves!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mRFWQoXq4c) You know, so you can sing along.


	5. Chapter 5

It didn’t quite seem real to Harry, this situation he’d suddenly found himself in, waiting in the wings backstage at Barbican Hall ready to go on before the LSO’s first concert of the season.  Or almost ready, anyway, if he could just manage to get his bloody cufflinks properly wrangled.

“Shit,” he cursed softly as the back of one of the cufflinks slipped through his fingers.  It dropped to the floor with a quiet _ping_ and bounced under the rickety cart of folding chairs to his right.

The week since the fundraising dinner at the gallery had gone by in the blink of an eye, a furious blur of rehearsals and escalating anxiety on Harry’s part.  He’d been doing breathing and visualization exercises all day to calm himself, but it was no use; his hands were still trembling as he bent to look for the little piece of metal.  He teetered in something of a precarious crouch, careful not to kneel all the way down so his tuxedo trousers wouldn’t get smudged with dust.

“Styles?” Louis Tomlinson said, from behind him.  His voice was quiet, but Harry heard the laugh in it, the amused confusion.  “Is this some kind of bizarre pre-performance relaxation ritual of yours?  Praying to chairs or something, hmm?”

The rest of the orchestra had already taken the stage, but it was tradition for the concertmaster to go on after them as a special show of respect for the position.  Louis would take a bow and then lead the orchestra in tuning, before Harry would make his entrance and begin the performance.  Harry had been fretting a bit over Louis’s whereabouts, actually, so he was relieved to hear his voice.

Not that he let it show.  He only grunted in response, choosing to focus all his energy on retrieving his very important lost object, stretching, barely able to brush it with the tips of his fingers...  

“Well, suit yourself,” Louis said, amiably.  “I usually go for a nice cleansing vom in the backstage bathroom, if I’m honest.  But, to each his own.”

“I --”  Harry exhaled deeply as he got to his feet, having finally succeeded in his task.  He was flushed from leaning over and felt like a raw bundle of nerves under Louis’s gaze, twitching as he straightened his tuxedo jacket.  “I dropped my cufflink...”

Louis had vanished after their final rehearsal that afternoon.  This was the first Harry’d seen of him since, and his voice trailed off as he got a better look at the violinist.  He was in his tails, of course, and Harry was floored by it, just as he had been at that photoshoot weeks before.   _Good God,_ he thought, drinking Louis up with his eyes.  Louis looked impeccable and absolutely gorgeous in the tux.  The closeness of its cut seemed to underline the power of his small frame, everything clinging and dropping in just the right way, a perfect silhouette.  The crispness at the shoulders only enhanced the lovely angles of Louis’s face.   _Louis’s face..._

Louis arched a brow, and Harry blushed.  He’d been so momentarily transfixed; it wasn’t even that he hadn’t realized he was staring, it was that he hadn’t remembered to try to hide it.   _A good-looking man in a suit and you go so stupid you completely forget social norms?_  Harry ducked his chin and began fussing with his cufflinks again.   _How exactly are you expecting to lead an orchestra through three complicated pieces of music?_  Harry’s heart skittered at the thought.  He felt sick to his stomach.   _Brilliant, here come the nervous sweats._  He nearly dropped a link again, wincing.   _Louis is Louis, though,_ his subconscious whispered, trying to console him.   _He looks deliciously imperious sometimes…  Beautifully so.  Can’t be blamed for noticing that.  You’ll be fine out there!  Buck up!_  Harry was in the midst of swinging back in the other direction, anxiously despairing about being a fumble-fingered loser who couldn’t even fasten his cufflinks, when he startled at a gentle touch to his wrist.

“Can’t even get the easy one, then?” Louis teased, seeing that Harry hadn’t been able to secure the cufflink on the wrist of his non-dominant hand.  He smiled up at Harry with his blue eyes.  “Let me.”

Harry gave the cufflinks over to Louis with a shaky sigh, breathing out heavily through his nose and holding his left forearm out in slightly embarrassed supplication.

“Seems a bit unwise to leave it to the last when you’re so shit at it, Harry,” Louis said, chuckling as he got to work.

Harry’s heart twisted in his chest at the affection he thought heard in Louis’s voice, at the unusually soft way Louis had said his name.    

“It’s not --”  Harry shivered slightly when the callused tips of Louis’s fingers grazed his skin as he finished up with the first link, fixing Harry’s cuff so it sat correctly under the sleeve of his jacket.  “It’s not normally such an -- such an issue.”

Louis smiled as he dropped Harry’s left wrist and moved on to the right.  He bobbed his head a few times in mocking acceptance.  Harry swallowed hard, suppressing a sigh as he looked down at the sweep of Louis’s eyelashes behind his glasses.   _Get a grip, Styles._

“Got your baton?” Louis asked.

A little bolt of disorienting terror shot through Harry at the question.  He tensed, patting his inside breast pocket reflexively.  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug, purposely over-casual, pretending he hadn’t been momentarily concerned despite them both knowing otherwise.

Louis laughed silently, his shoulders shaking with it.  Harry tried to pretend for real then, just to himself.  Pretend there wasn’t a sweet warmth threading through his veins because of Louis’s reaction.  He knew his own cheeks must be tinted pink.

“Where’s your violin?” he asked, remembering suddenly that Louis had been holding it moments before when he’d caught Harry staring.

Louis jerked his head toward the table that was set up next to the cart of chairs.  “Over there.”  He laughed again, softly.  “I set ‘im down when I saw that you were such a hopeless case, Styles.  Can’t have you going out there with unlinked cuffs!  Not when you’re representing _my_ orchestra.”

Nervous energy flooded back into Harry’s body and he gave a jerky nod, remembering what he was about to do.  He must have gone a little wide-eyed because Louis chuckled again, shaking his head.

“Hey.” Louis said.  He’d finished with the second cuff and he tugged at Harry’s suit jacket to make sure it fell properly on his shoulders.  “You’re more than presentable now, all right?  You’ll be fine.”

Harry nodded again, breathing deep.  Christ, he needed this to go well, all of it: the _Divertimento, Pini di Roma,_ but especially _Don Juan._  He’d tried not to let his expectations get too high, but he had to admit that he desperately wanted this performance of the Strauss to be something people would remember, his interpretation something that they would talk about.

Louis laughed.  “Get it together, Styles,” he said, the breeziness of his tone maybe a shade too bright, giving Harry the barest glimpse at the possibility that Louis might be calming some nerves of his own.  “I’m bricking it too, you know.  We all are.  Some of us are just better at hiding it.”

Harry hummed out a weak laugh and bit his lip.  He wasn’t sure if the fragile intimacy of this interaction with Louis was making him feel more or less at ease.  It certainly wasn’t settling his heartbeat.  The truth was, he felt a little jarred by Louis being so… so nice, really.  Especially since Louis’s previous reaction to the stress of their quickly approaching debut had been to make increasingly biting comments at rehearsals all week.  Harry didn’t want to think too hard about how much he liked it, Louis being nice.  

He didn’t have long to do so anyway, because the next thing he knew, Louis had scooped up his violin and bow and was squaring his shoulders one last time.

“See you out there, Don Juan,” Louis whispered.  A little zip of electricity ran through Harry as he watched Louis stride out onto the stage, looking every inch the concertmaster, fully in his element and situation firmly in hand.

 _Control,_ Harry thought, as the wind instruments quickly tuned to the A of Janet Ingersoll’s oboe.   _You can do this.  You have control.  You’re ready.  You know what you’re doing.  You’re ready.  They are ready for you._

He pushed aside niggling thoughts of the things he didn’t have any control over at all, the areas where he was floundering about.   _You’ll get over it,_ he thought as Louis’s eyes flashed through his mind, blinking up at him, their blue extra bold against the white tie of his tuxedo.   _‘s just a silly distraction, is all.  Nothing you can’t handle._

Harry waited until the orchestra was tuned, patted his pocket for his baton one more time, took a deep breath and went out on stage to do his job.

*

Just over an hour later, Harry was walking back out to his orchestra again, having spent his short break in the wings trying to collect himself.  The concert had gone well so far.  Very well, in fact.  When he’d left the stage after _Pini di Roma,_ just minutes before, he had been called back out for an extra bow by the audience’s continuing applause.  And the _Divertimento_ had been an absolute joy to conduct as an opener, its vibrant intensity soothing Harry somehow, allowing him to feel at home in the performance almost immediately.

But now it was time for the Strauss.  For _Don Juan_ at last, and Harry’s nerves sparked back to life because of it.  There was an anxious current buzzing through him as he moved purposefully across the stage to the podium.  It felt like the good kind of anxiety, though.  The kind of positive nervous energy that doesn’t overwhelm, but elevates your performance instead.

Harry nodded his head at the audience in acknowledgment and then turned and took his place before the orchestra, beaming silently out at them.  He paused, waiting patiently with his arms behind his back as they settled, the comforting sounds of their rustling dying out.  The knock of a bow against the wood of a cello, the sticky release of the keys of a flute, a tug on an ill-positioned sleeve, and then they were quiet.  Harry knew that all of their hard work over the last month and half had been leading to this moment, and he let that awareness of their collective preparation steady him as he took one last, deep breath and raised his arms.  

His heart filled with a pleasant ache of anticipation as he made deliberate eye contact with the appropriate section leaders.  Then he lowered his baton with a firm flourish, and they were off.

Right from the start, Louis Tomlinson was pushing the tempo that Harry had set.  Harry felt it as the violins whipped through their opening run of sixteenth notes, a quick phrase Strauss wrote to establish the jaunty masculinity of the Don.

 _You should have fucking known,_ Harry thought, feeling his blood start to simmer.  He clenched his jaw and steeled himself for what he sensed was coming.

He was right.  Louis continued to resist his tempo, leading his section just a hair faster than the rest of the orchestra.  Harry glared down at Louis to communicate his displeasure, but the concertmaster kept his head obstinately buried in his music.  It was give and take between them for the entire introduction.  Harry just barely managed to maintain his dominance as they swept into the sensuous passage that indicated the arrival of Don Juan’s first romantic partner.  Louis’s solo during this part of the piece required a much a gentler touch throughout, and it afforded Harry a respite from the unrelenting pressure the violinist had been exerting.  The relief of it made Harry’s conducting that much more painstaking, and he drew the music out of the orchestra, fragile and sweet, the echo of the woodwinds perfectly evoking the Don’s yearning for this new lover.

The piece rushed onward from there, the tempo and feel of the subsequent passage much more bold as conductor and concertmaster fought for control of the music pouring forth.  Every time Harry thought he’d finally reined Louis in, the violinist would push back once more, urging the orchestra on, swirling them into his furious uptempo vortex as he struggled to leave Harry behind in his wake.

Harry’s heart was absolutely thundering in his chest, sweaty hair flopping onto his forehead.  His veins were more full of anger and adrenaline than blood by the time they were racing toward the climax, toward Don Juan’s final, crazed moments.  His baton cut a fierce path through the air, barely holding Louis in check, deftly guiding the orchestra through the booming passage before the final coda that concluded the piece.

As Harry made a strong, emphatic motion to cut the orchestra off, calling a halt to the mad dash for the single empty measure before that coda, his gaze flicked down and to the left.  He felt an irrepressible shiver run through him as his eyes locked onto Louis’s and held there.  The sudden silence filling up Barbican Hall seemed to stretched out between them, endless.  Harry’s pulse spiked higher at the challenge he saw in Louis’s hot-blue gaze, it infuriated him and aroused him all at once.   _Unacceptable.  Completely unacceptable._  He swallowed hard and looked away, before raising his arms again and bringing the orchestra, _his_ orchestra, into the last passage of _Don Juan._

The coda was a gorgeous, eerie denouement that represented Don Juan’s death, the pause before it a symbol of the loss of his will to live.  The series of shimmering descending notes that echoed out into the hall danced down Harry’s spine, reigniting the shiver he’d experienced moments before.  He almost felt as though he were out of time and place, drenched in conflicting emotions, connected to the music and separated from it at the same time.  Louis had him at sea.  Harry held his breath as he conducted his musicians through the last two pizzicato notes, letting the haunting sound of the final plucked string reverberate into quiet before he relaxed and exhaled heavily, dropping his arms to his sides to indicate that the performance was finished, at last.

Everything was hushed in the aftermath.  All Harry could hear was the ragged noise of his own breathing and the rush of blood in his ears.  A paralyzing fear seized him then, shame wrapping around his heart as it dawned on him that the performance must have been an utter failure.  The shifts in tempo had been too wild to go unnoticed; the orchestra had careened out of control.  Harry hadn’t done his job, and he’d let everybody down.  He couldn’t breathe.

Until the audience erupted into powerful, resounding applause, the sound of it cracking through the air as they rose to their feet to give him a standing ovation.

Harry’s hands were shaking slightly, his heart in a vise.  He opened his arms to the orchestra, signalling them to stand and accept the recognition of their achievement.  Then he turned to the audience himself and give an abbreviated bow.

It was customary for the concertmaster and conductor to shake hands at the end of a performance, and the barrage of applause only intensified as Harry stepped down from his podium and moved toward Louis, extending his arm.  When he saw the look of mildly amused triumph on Louis’s face as he approached, Harry knew that something had to change.

 _This cannot be how it is,_ he thought with steely determination, righteous anger snaking through him as their palms came together.  Harry ignored the frustratingly familiar spark of desire, pretending it didn’t exist, and slid his left hand up Louis’s arm to his elbow to pull him in.  If he hadn’t been so worked up, so distracted by his own heightened emotions, Harry might have gotten greater satisfaction from the way Louis tensed in surprise and trembled slightly under his touch.  He leaned forward with a tight smile and positioned his mouth just at the shell of Louis’s ear.

“Meet me at my office the second you get to St. Luke’s,” he growled in a whisper.  The afterparty to celebrate that night’s performance and the start of the new season was being held in Jerwood Hall at the old church.  “The _second_ you get there.”

Louis shied slightly, flushing.  He looked momentarily confused, then irritated, but quickly schooled his face into a blank smile for the audience, blinking as he cocked his head a touch to the left, away from Harry’s mouth.  He still held fast to Harry’s hand, though.  

“I mean _immediately,_ Louis.  No stopping for champagne or to joke around with Niall or to chat with Richard Cartwright or whatever it is you thought you were going to do.  We have to talk.”  Louis made a single noise of protest, a haughty little huff of an exhalation.  Harry just tightened his grip on Louis’s elbow, leaning in even closer so that his lips were almost ghosting over Louis’s ear.

“This is not a request,” he said.  He repeated the words, low, deep and unyielding, as the rest of the world clapped far away.  “This is _not_ a request.”

Louis walked to St. Luke’s alone, as quickly as he could.  He avoided all the usual congratulatory camaraderie, skirting the groups of musicians and audience members who were milling around in Barbican Hall, taking time to schmooze a little before making their way over to the afterparty.  Louis had immediately stowed Thunder backstage in the secure instruments storage facility and then grabbed his coat, slipping out through one of the less-frequented side doors before anyone could delay him.

There was something about Harry Styles’s voice, how forceful it had been when he’d whispered in Louis’s ear, that made Louis feel restless and unsettled.  More than usual, for a post-concert high, and he’d needed to get out of the building and away from people.  Needed the chill night air and to be alone with his thoughts.

 _He’s only going to bitch at you about the tempo,_ Louis assured himself, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, maroon scarf wrapped tightly around his neck as he moved toward the church in the distance.  _“This is my orchestra.”_  He mimicked Harry in his mind, ignoring the wisps of uneasy guilt that had taken up residence in his stomach.  _Yeah, well, i just did “your” orchestra a favor, so calm down._

Louis already knew that people would be talking about _Don Juan_ for the rest of the season.  Harry had been right about its soul; Louis could admit that, but it was Louis who’d been right about the tempo.  _Mostly right, anyway._

“He’ll probably say it’s the principle of the matter,” Louis predicted, irritated as he turned off Whitecross and onto Old, slipping through the creaky wrought-iron gate that lead to St. Luke’s churchyard.  

Why was he worrying about this so much, anyway?  He just wanted to get it over with, really, so he could relax.  Because Louis couldn’t relax right now.  Not when he kept seeing the darkness in Harry’s expression as he’d taken Louis’s hand.  Kept feeling the press of the buttons on Harry’s tuxedo jacket against his forearm once Harry had leaned in to whisper, the phantom touch of Harry’s lips at his ear.  Harry had smelled like expensive sweat, and Louis certainly didn’t want to be dwelling on that, either; didn’t know why his mind refused to stop circling back to it as he entered the church.

_You know why._

Louis felt stupid, suddenly, when he realized he was standing in St. Luke’s all by himself.  Exposed and a little embarrassed.  He must have walked over even more quickly than he’d realized, to be the very first person here.  Even the entryway was practically deserted; the coat check girl was only just settling in at her post.

 _Great_ _._  Louis slunk over to her, sighing and thinking about how Harry would most likely be held up by loads of people wanting to congratulate him on such an excellent concert.  It might be half an hour before the conductor even arrived.  _Wonderful.  Now you’ll be waiting outside his office like a good little boy.  A good little boy who does exactly what he’s told._

He handed the coat check girl both his overcoat and the jacket of his tux, not wanting to be quite so constricted anymore.  He looked dapper in his waistcoat anyway; Niall always told him so.  (And he knew it himself, too.  It’s not like he couldn’t tell in the mirror.)

 _But you’re more like a bad little boy, aren’t you?_ an evil voice hissed in his mind as he took his ticket from the girl.  He blushed a bright crimson in surprise, just at having had the thought at all, and wasn’t able to stop himself from following it through to its logical conclusion.  _A bad little boy who’s waiting to be punished._

Louis tugged at his collar where it pulled at his neck; everything still felt too confining.  _Fuck_ _._  Where was this coming from?  How had his life come to this?  How was Harry fucking Styles getting under his skin like this; Harry _Styles_ _,_ of all people?  Louis just needed to get laid.  _That’s it,_ he reminded himself.  He needed to get laid and he needed a drink.

Probably alcohol was the more readily available of the two at this point.

He knew Harry had told him to go directly up to his office, but that seemed unnecessary at the moment.  Louis didn’t particularly feel like following Styles’s instructions to the letter anyway, so he drifted into Jerwood Hall and over to the bar.  There were two kids in their early twenties behind it, laughing together and finishing up with their fruit tray prep as they waited for the night’s first customer.

“Macallan 12 please,” Louis said, tapping his fingers against his legs.  “Neat.”

He was slowly lifting the glass to lips, bracing himself for the pleasantly bitter, oaken taste of the alcohol, when he startled at the firm touch of a hand to his hip.

“Thought I made myself pretty clear earlier, but I guess not.”  Harry’s tone was serious and clipped, his voice just as deep as always.  He looked as stormy as he had at the end of the concert, a lean whip of black, still in his full tuxedo.

Before Louis knew what was happening, Harry had snatched the scotch right out of his hand and set it back on the bar.  He didn’t move his hand from Louis’s hip as he ushered him toward the rear door of the hall, the one that lead to the small lobby outside Harry’s office.

“Hey!” Louis said, his voice shrill.  He felt peevish about being manhandled so abruptly, being so easily corralled.  “I was going to drink that!”

“Oh come off it, Louis, there’ll be booze all night,” Harry snapped as he guided Louis through the door, his large, warm hand shifting to the small of Louis’s back.  “We need to talk.”

It was an open bar and Louis knew he would have more than ample opportunity to drink later if he wanted to, but he felt like being difficult about it anyway.  This strangely commanding version of Harry made Louis feel out of his depth and uncertain, filled him with an irresistible need to push back.  He knew he was starting to sound a bit like a petulant child, but he felt helpless to stop it.

“I’m perfectly capable of talking to you in your office with a drink in hand, Styles,” he pointed out, standing in the middle of the lobby and crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry looked back at him, three steps ahead.  He was entirely unimpressed and didn’t give an inch, rolling his eyes.  “Let’s go, Tomlinson.”

Louis huffed, but obliged.  

“You know, I’m not sure what your problem is, exactly,” Louis said as he scurried to catch up.  He hovered behind Harry as he worked the key into the door.  Louis had planned on maintaining an air of cool, dry amusement at Harry’s clear ridiculousness when he’d imagined this conversation in his head, but he could tell that he was already beginning to veer toward the hysterical.  “You heard that reaction!” he went on as the lock clicked open at last.  “They loved it!  Ate it right up… you…  You practically owe me a thank you!”

Harry stood in the half-opened doorway just staring at Louis for a moment, exhaling heavily through his nose and biting at the inside of his lip.  His expression was unreadable.  Louis felt impatient and irritable and he raised his eyebrows to communicate that, hoping it might goad Harry into actually saying something, anything at all.   

The reaction he got was not what he’d been expecting.

Because Harry gave a single, frustrated shake of his head and then yanked Louis into his office by the wrist.  Spinning him quickly around, he pressed into Louis from behind, using his body to trap him firmly up against the door.

Louis nearly strangled on his own breath, choking in surprise as it caught high in his throat.  His absolute shock at Harry’s behavior was immediately eclipsed by the rush of piercing and electric arousal it sent shooting down his spine.  Louis went momentarily rigid with it, his back arching slightly as a huff of air finally punched out of his lungs in the smallest of agonized moans.  

Harry was everywhere, all around him, so suddenly.  His big, strong hands had come up and covered Louis’s where his palms rested on the door above his head.  Louis could feel the power of Harry’s broad chest where it spanned his shoulder blades, and the heat of Harry’s stomach on his back.  He let out another short, pained noise when he realized that Harry was half hard against him, his crotch flush with Louis’s arse.

 _“Louis_ _,”_ Harry breathed into his in ear.  He sounded desperate, a hint of hoarseness creeping into his voice and Louis absolutely shuddered because of it.  Shivers ran the length of his back; his muscles quivered.  He was unable to stop the broken whimper that wrung itself out of him.

“I don’t know what you thought you were playing at, tonight,” Harry went on in a low growl.  He nosed at the back of Louis’s neck as he spoke, and Louis shut his eyes tightly against the feel of it, the tortuous little ripples of sensation it sent pulsing through his nervous system.  He couldn’t remember ever having gotten so hard so quickly; it was almost excruciating.  He was breathless, dizzy from it, his heart hammering in his chest.  “But it can’t happen again, do you understand?”

Louis couldn’t even attempt to respond.  He was dazed, so overwhelmed.  He was just trying to concentrate on regulating his breathing.  Harry continued.  “I don’t mind compromise,” he said, his hot breath moving over Louis’s skin.  “I don’t mind working together.”  He emphasized this point by taking his right hand from where it rested on top of Louis’s and dropping it down to Louis’s belly, pulling Louis’s body even more snugly against his own.  “But you _have_ to remember that I’m in charge.”

Louis swallowed hard and somehow managed a nod of understanding, keening softly when Harry sighed in response, his chin coming to rest on Louis’s shoulder.  They stood together for a minute, pressed against each other, breathing in unison.  In and out, in and out.  Slow and shaky and deep.

Just when Louis thought he might be able to take advantage of the moment to regain a little bit of his grip on reality, he felt the soft slide of Harry's plush lips at the side of his neck, just above his collar, and all was lost again.  Louis’s jaw fell open for a series of barely vocalized moans as Harry mouthed at the delicate skin, working his way up to the extra sensitive patch just behind Louis’s ear and making Louis squirm back against him in semi-ecstasy.

“Louis.  Jesus,” Harry groaned.  His voice sounded as broken and raw as Louis’s nerves and Louis could feel Harry’s heart pounding against his back, in counterpoint to his own.  He ached from it, trembling under Harry, longing for him.

“I can’t go on like this,” Harry said, stricken, like he was casting about for a solution and didn’t know what to do.  “I-I want-- I can’t do it anymore.”  He paused, burying his nose in Louis’s hair and inhaling deeply before dropping a single, open mouthed bite onto Louis’s shoulder through the fabric of his waistcoat, a delicate press of teeth.  “Oh God,” Harry whispered wretchedly, when he lifted his head.  “I just can’t.”

Louis felt strangely like he might start laugh-sobbing from the intensity of his desire.  His body was in torment, the combination of hormones and emotion inside him making him feel almost sick to his stomach with need.  He knew right then that he’d never wanted to be fucked so badly, not ever before in his entire life.  He’d have done anything, he’d have spread himself out on Harry’s desk and begged him for it.

But then Harry pulled away from him, reluctantly leaning back on his heels.  His fingers closed over the sides of Louis’s upper arms and he murmured into his ear again.  “We have to go back out there and talk to those people, Louis; we have to go to the party…  They’re expecting us.  It’s-- this isn’t over, though.  It’s not.  It can’t be…  Wait for me, after.   _Wait for me.”_

Louis gave another jerky, abbreviated nod and then Harry was gone, slipping back out into the hallway and leaving Louis behind, weak-kneed and panting.

Louis stared blankly at the door for several seconds and then brought his shaking hands up to cover his face, groaning into them.  He made his way around the desk and slumped into Harry’s chair, waiting for his erection to ease a touch before he went back out to the party.

“What are you getting yourself into?” he asked aloud, miserable and horny, his heartbeat still erratic.   

It was undeniable how much he wanted Harry Styles; he couldn’t pretend to himself any longer, not after this.  It was undeniable and maybe uncontrollable, too.  That’s what scared Louis the most.

It took another seven minutes before he felt recovered enough to be around people again.  Louis was so stunned by what had happened.  He felt wired, but wrung-out at the same time.  Diminished, in a way.  It was oddly similar to the edgy fog of full-body exhaustion that comes after an extended crying jag.  Louis was flushed, his skin hot and clammy under his clothes, his head aching.  It was as though Harry Styles touching him and then taking his touch away had given Louis some kind of bizarre lust hangover.  He’d needed every one of those seven minutes to regroup.

_Will they see it on me?  Will they read it right off my face?_

A fresh wave of self-consciousness crashed over him as he stole back through the door into Jerwood Hall.  He had a brief moment of terror, standing at the periphery of the party and watching the clusters of people enjoy themselves, that he wasn’t going to be able to do this at all.  That it was simply too daunting a task in the state he was in.  But the next second, Taggie Diversey was grabbing his arm, babbling about how they’d been looking everywhere for him and what a marvelous concert he’d had and what a marvelous concert everyone had had and where’s your drink, Louis?  And he was swept up into the throng, fleeting panic forgotten, replaced by a flute of champagne.

Harry wasn’t forgotten, though.  Harry, Louis couldn’t escape.  It would have been hard not to think about him anyway; Louis could admit that, but everything was made even more difficult by the fact that their performance of _Don Juan_ was the toast of the evening.  It had everybody talking, just like Louis had predicted.  Everywhere he turned there was excited chatter, people whispering reverent praise, waxing lyrical about having witnessed something classic.  Every time Louis somehow managed to lose track of Harry in the crowd, every time he finally managed to push the thought of him back into the far reaches of his mind and actually engage in conversation, someone would inevitably bring up _Don Juan_ _._  And then all Louis could see was Harry, all over again; all he could feel was the coiled heat of Harry’s wonderful body against his back, his perfect mouth on Louis’s neck, hand at Louis’s hip.  The memories were vivid and searing.  They took Louis’s breath away.

_Wait for me._

He only had to interact directly with Harry once, thank God.  It was enough.

Grimshaw came running over to him about an hour before things started to wind down, an awkwardly tall penguin in his tux as always, hair falling into his eyes like it did whenever he got even mildly pissed.

“Tomlinson, for Christ’s sake, where’ve you been?” he asked, clutching at Louis’s forearm with the hand that wasn’t holding a drink.  “I need your assistance, come quick.”

He marched Louis back over to the group of people he’d been entertaining, Harry Styles among them.

“I’ve been trying to convince young Harold here that it was better than the Mengelberg, Louis.  He’s not having it.”  Nick gestured over to Harry, who stood across the circle looking elegant and calm.  “Tell him it was better, please.”

Louis blinked at Nick, unable to look at Harry all the way.  He was inexplicably afraid he’d see indifference in Harry’s eyes, that he’d get confirmation that Harry had changed his mind.

_Wait for me._

“Mengelberg?”

“Yes!  Mengelberg!  With the Concertgebouw, 1938?   _Don Juan_ _._  Ring any bells?” Nick asked, feathers ruffled in mild outrage at Louis’s apparent ignorance.  “This was better!  Mengelberg was such a master of phrasing, but the way Styles chose to manipulate the tempo…  It was _even_ better.  He doesn’t believe me.  Tell him.”

Louis stared at the ground instead, blushing furiously.  Grimshaw continued to talk, directing his speech to Harry now, since Louis had turned out to be no help whatsoever.

“The entire performance was fantastic.  But the shifts in tempo!  They were genius.  Genius!  It just.  It let you feel -- _really_ feel-- Don Juan’s torment, his inner struggle.  The push and the pull of it!”  Grimmy was gushing, gesturing over-excitedly with his hands, but Louis could see the other people in the crowd nodding in enthusiastic agreement.  “Man vs. Self, Orchestra vs. Conductor.  The classic conflicts,” Grimmy finished, half-jesting and clearly pleased with himself.

“Yes, well,” Harry finally responded, wry voice rumbling out of his chest.  “Louis deserves just as much credit for that as I do…  If not more.”

Louis’s head snapped up to look at him, his heart pounding, jaw set in indignation.  Harry stared right back, eyes flashing with dark amusement.

Christ, Louis wanted him.

“You’re right, Harry,” Amelia Fraiser-Lind said with a simper, turning to Louis.  “Amazing performance tonight.  Well done, Concertmaster.”

By the time Louis managed to extract himself from her, Harry had disappeared.  Louis was relieved, glad for the chance to breathe a little easier again without Harry’s presence.

But as the night drew to a close he began to feel increasingly anxious, wondering where Harry had gone.  He hadn’t just left their circle of conversation; he seemed to have quit Jerwood Hall as well, maybe St. Luke’s all together.

Louis didn’t want to acknowledge how sick it made him feel, that last possibility, so he slowly coaxed himself into accepting it as fact.  That way he could start the work of easing the crushing and infuriating disappointment he’d feel when it was inevitably confirmed to be true by convincing himself he hadn’t wanted Harry to wait for him in the first place.

 _You didn’t actually want to go home with him,_ he told himself as he lingered by the bar, scotch in hand, looking out at the dwindling number of people in the hall.  _Only bad would have come of it.  You know that.  Only terrible things would have happened.  They have specific adages about that kind of thing for a reason, okay?  Don’t shit where you eat..._

He trudged out to coat check when there were only five other people in Jerwood, two of them bartenders.  

 _Fuck him for changing his mind anyway_ _,_ Louis thought, keeping his head down as he slowly pulled his tux jacket on, then his overcoat.  A flood of hot embarrassment spread through his body when he realized he was taking his time with these last few things on purpose.  He was even carefully arranging his scarf around his neck in a way he normally never would, in the misguided hope that the extra few seconds would give Harry Styles enough time to miraculously reappear.

 _Wait for me._  This time it was bitingly sarcastic in Louis’s mind, as he tried and failed to ignore the bitter twist of rejection in his gut.  It hurt.  The disappointment cut deep, hollowed out his chest.  _You are a fool, Tomlinson.  Weak and foolish and out of control._

Finally resolving to go, Harry Styles be damned, Louis looked up toward the doors.  And there he was.  There was Harry Styles, unfairly handsome in his long black coat, standing quietly under the beautiful arches of the entryway to St. Luke’s.

Waiting for Louis.   

He watched him approach, only glancing away once to signal a passing taxi.  Stood silently when Louis stopped in front of him.

“Well, Styles?”

Harry gave him a final, unreadable look before he turned to open the door.  Louis climbed into the cab after him, seating himself primly on the passenger’s side and avoiding eye contact.  No point trying to be cool, really.  Not when his heart was pounding faster than the tempo he’d pushed during _Don Juan_ and his palms were slick with sweat.  He tried to breathe as Harry leaned forward to murmur something to the driver -- an address Louis didn’t quite catch.  He wasn’t going to look at him, he wasn’t…  He watched out of the corner of his eye as Harry eased back into his seat, and his breath faltered when he felt Harry’s large hand slide possessively onto his upper thigh.

Neither of them spoke for the first half of the drive.  The buildings of London loomed and retreated, dark giants of brick and glass, and Louis looked at each of them as a warning sign.  The further they got from the Barbican, the further from Louis’s own flat, the more scared and turned on he became.  Harry’s hand was warm on his leg, fingers sliding into the crack between his thighs to rub at his inseam.  Louis threw his head back and stifled a moan, letting his eyelids flutter shut for a moment.

He opened them to glance at Harry.  He seemed to be staring moodily out of the driver’s side window, profile limned with hazy orange streetlight.  Stray curls like a halo.

“Starting to rain,” Harry mused.  To anyone else, he might have sounded bored, but Louis could hear the tightness in his throat.  Could feel his hand shaking, his thumb rubbing little circles into Louis’s hip.  Fat raindrops had started to fall, the first of the spring, streaking the glass with shining beads.

Louis opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something sarcastic about Harry’s constant need to point out the obvious, but his words dissolved into a sharp hiss when Harry moved his hand over an inch to palm at his crotch, putting almost uncomfortable pressure on his balls.  Little boy waiting to be punished.  Right.

 _I should have just left,_ Louis thought, struggling to breathe as Harry continued to fondle him roughly through the fabric of his tuxedo trousers.  _I shouldn’t have waited.  Why did I wait?_

The answer was obvious.  Harry was cupping it, stroking it as they drove up Rosslyn Hill into Hampstead.  Brick houses with wrought-iron gates lined the road; there were fewer streetlamps but still more than enough light to see by.  Louis bit his lip, willing the driver not to glance at his rearview.  He didn’t think Harry was hard, even, God.  _This is so fucking humiliating.  He could have anybody; he probably just picked me to have sex with because I happened to be gay and convenient.  And here I am, embarrassingly up for it.  While he's all relaxed._  Louis squirmed, agitated, cheeks flushing as Harry continued to calmly, casually touch him through his trousers.  He wondered if Harry was silently laughing at him.

They turned a corner into a narrow lane, more expensive flats in a row across from a walled-off garden.  The ivy on the brick was still brown and bare.  Harry took his hand away as the taxi shuddered to a halt, Louis barely suppressing a whine at the loss of sensation.  He waited in the backseat while Harry paid, willing himself not to come in his pants.  Thinking of anything he possibly could to reverse the flow of blood and calm his raging erection, because Harry wasn’t going to get him that easily.  Louis wasn’t going to let his body admit how much he wanted this, how much he desperately needed it.  He finally stepped out of the cab to a blast of chill March wind and a spatter of raindrops across his glasses.

His knees were shaking, but at least the cold helped.

Harry’s door slammed and the cab peeled away, leaving just the two of them facing each other across the deserted lane.  Louis took one more breath to steady himself before he spoke.

“This is your building, yeah?  Fairly posh --”

He didn’t get another word out before Harry’s fingers were closing around the front of his waistband and Louis was being jerked roughly forward in the rain.  Their bodies crashed together, Harry’s breath hot in his ear.  Louis felt hands on the side of his face, tilting his head up and then Harry’s lips were on him.

They were plush, and warm, and wet, and when Louis opened his mouth to let Harry in a little moan of relief escaped him.  His head was spinning, feet floating off the ground as they kissed hungrily.  Somewhere in the haze of bruising lips and Harry’s dominant tongue, Louis registered that they were moving toward the door.  The rain was lashing at them now; they were both as good as drenched.  They stopped at the entryway to the building.  Harry slid his hand up through the wet hair at the back of Louis’s head only to yank his face sharply to the side, exposing a golden column of skin.  He licked the rainwater up under Louis’s jawline, and Louis shivered.

“Get us the fuck inside, Styles,” he managed in a ragged whisper.

Harry made a noise low in his throat and broke away, fumbling for his keys and quickly letting them into the bright, black-and-white tiled hallway.  There were three flats in the building, one on each floor.  Harry took Louis’s hand and started dragging him up the steep, narrow staircase, not bothering to wipe his muddy feet on the welcome mat.

“Shit,” Louis swore under his breath, feeling the ache in his legs as he tried to keep up.  It wasn’t easy with his heart practically pounding its way out of his chest.  He couldn’t get enough oxygen.  Louis wondered if this is what it felt like to have a panic attack.

 _Sex attack,_ he thought wildly as Harry yanked on his arm.  _It’s a sex attack._

They paused on the second story landing.  Harry crowded Louis against the low bannister, bending him over backwards to suck a bruise into the base of his neck.  Louis was so close to just tumbling, falling…  But Harry wasn’t letting him.  Harry was in control.

“You... you don’t know how fucking long I’ve been waiting to do that,” he rasped, green eyes dark with unblinking awe as he paused to admire his work.

“We’re going to wake your neighbors,” Louis hissed, eyes flicking to the door just a few feet away.  It was decorated with a prim basket of fresh flowers and a wooden sign that proclaimed the owner of the flat to be a ‘Mrs. M. Fielding.’

“Good,” Harry whispered.  “I want them all to know I’m fucking you.  Want them to hear you come.”

“Jesus _Christ.”_  Louis pushed Harry away, giving himself a second to breathe before they were hurrying again, running down the hallway and up one more flight to the third floor.  This time Harry was ready with the key, using his left hand to shake some of the rain out of his curls as he pushed open the door.

He didn’t waste time turning on the light.  Louis stood on the threshold uncertainly for a moment before Harry was dragging him inside, hands everywhere, under Louis’s jacket, rucking up his tuxedo shirt to touch the bare skin of his lower back.  Louis squinted through the streaks of rain on his glasses -- Harry’s flat was a studio, big, with exposed brick walls and a twisting spiral staircase that led up to a loft bedroom.  Light from the streetlamps below washed everything with a dim glow; tall glass windows looked out over Hampstead Heath.

“Take my shirt off,” Harry demanded.  He carefully plucked Louis’s glasses off his nose, folded them and set them on top of a pile of mail near the door.  “I want to see your hands.”

Louis gulped.  He bit his lip, gazing up at Harry’s face through long eyelashes.  There was a stormy expression there, like when he’d been conducting the orchestra tonight.  That same deep focus Louis had first seen when he’d interrupted Harry all those weeks ago in the midst of reading Louis’s composition off the blackboard in his new office.  _Harry fucking Styles._ Louis’s mind flashed to the Esquire pictures, hands starting to tremble because he was about to see it in real life.

He started at the bottom, nimbly undoing the buttons of Harry’s tuxedo shirt.  Hesitantly, he spread his palm over Harry’s stomach, feeling the coarse hair below his belly button and the hard muscle as Harry tensed at his touch.  Finally the shirt was off, falling forgotten to the floor and Harry was staring at Louis’s hands as they worked on his zipper.  Louis’s breath hitched at the sight of pale skin and dark ink.  He wondered what all the designs were for, wondered if Harry would let him trace their outlines, lick around them lazily in the morning.  But he banished the thought from his mind as soon as it came; this was just a one-night stand, obviously.  Something had gotten into Harry, the performance high and unresolved feelings from his adolescence had made him snap and now they were doing this.  They’d do it once, and then they’d both finally be able to walk away.  _Just one time; that's all.  Just sex._

Harry was toeing off his shoes when Louis got his pants down around his thighs.  He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s boxer briefs and glanced up at him, questioningly, knees halfway to the floor.

“Do it,” Harry said.  “I want you to see me, Louis.”

Louis felt a thrill down his spine as he tugged at the stretchy black material, and gasped at what he uncovered.  Harry’s cock was _big_ _._  So big, and so pretty.  It was semi-erect, slightly flushed and inches from Louis’s face.  He felt a hand on his chin; Harry tilted his head up again.  “Think you can take it?” he asked, grinning, confidently challenging.  “Concertmaster?”

Louis swallowed thickly.  He helped Harry completely out of his pants and stood up again, eyes helplessly fixated on Harry’s huge… just, _huge_ dick.  He felt intimidated.  “I’m, um…” he stammered, voice raspy.  “Just so you know, I’m more of a grower than a shower…”

Harry growled, voice already wrecked.  “Mmm, yeah, I bet you are.”  A burst of something hot surged up in Louis’s chest, and then Harry was on him again, wrestling him over to the spiral staircase and manhandling him up to bed.

They barely made it to the loft before Harry was ripping his clothes off, mouthing hungrily at his collarbones as he made quick work of his trousers and boxers.  Louis whimpered, feeling his last layer of defense slip away.  Harry kissed him again, hard, nipping at his bottom lip and laving over the wound with his tongue before spinning him around roughly.  He’d captured both of Louis’s delicate wrists in one of his big hands; just the thought of those warm hands on his cock later was enough to get Louis fully hard.  Louis flexed, twisting his wrists, but Harry only gripped him tighter.

“We’re doing this _my_ way, Tomlinson,” he whispered.  "My way, this time."  Then he forced Louis down onto the bed, where he inhaled the scent of clean white sheets right before a stinging slap landed across his left arsecheek.  Louis gasped -- the slap _hurt,_ but it sent a hot thrill up his spine.

“That okay with you?” Harry added, tone slightly softer.  “Tell me if it’s not.”

Louis tried to regulate his breaths.  “It’s, _oh…”_ he gasped.  “It’s okay, fuck.  It’s okay.”

“Good.”  Louis felt Harry’s weight as he sank onto the bed, knees bracketing Louis’s thighs as his free hand kneaded the sore spot on his arse.  He leaned over and Louis felt puffs of hot air, faint kisses pressed up the outside of his bicep.  Then Harry whispered in his ear.  “Used to dream about this, sometimes.”

Louis moaned, pulse skyrocketing as he felt Harry’s finger slip between his crack to rub gently over his entrance.  “You used to dream about… _mmph…_ fucking me?”  He strained his neck, trying to peer over his shoulder in the dim light.  He saw two of Harry’s fingers disappearing into his mouth, and his next touch was wet.

“Well, back then it was usually the other way around,” Harry said.  “But as I’ve grown up I’ve become a bit more versatile.”

The sound of Harry’s voice sent shivers over Louis’s skin.  He squirmed helplessly on the sheets as Harry pressed a spit-slick finger into him, just up to the first knuckle.  It was more than he’d had in ages, and the sensation was so overwhelming Louis felt white heat flare up behind his eyeballs.  His mind had gone fuzzy with lust; he bit his lip and let out a needy groan, stopping just short of begging for more.

“Knew you’d be tight,” Harry whispered.  He shifted them on the bed, moving Louis easily so that he was lying across Harry’s lap, arse in the air and his flushed cock dribbling pre-come onto Harry’s thigh.  Harry still had a finger in him, and Louis didn’t know whether to press back on it or grind his hips down, searching for more friction.  “Knew because you love being in control.  Of your instrument, of the orchestra…”

Harry dealt him a cracking blow across the other cheek.  Louis hissed and clenched around Harry’s knuckle, glancing up just in time to see his eyes darken, red-bitten lips even more plush than usual.  “But you’ve got to understand that _I’m your boss.”_

Louis’s brain almost shorted out.  He was on the edge already and this situation, lying across Harry’s lap totally at his mercy, was blindingly hot.  “C’mon, do it,” he whispered.

He felt Harry shiver, starting to fuck into him with his finger.  Another stinging slap, and then another.  Harry’s big left hand was making perfect, perfect red marks on Louis’s pretty arse and _fuck,_ Louis didn’t want to come yet.  _Shit._  He felt his orgasm building in him, heat licking up his thighs to settle in his balls and he didn’t want to come, no, _God that’s embarrassing, not so soon…_  But now Harry was massaging the sore spots again, leaning over to press soft kisses into the dimples at the base of Louis’s spine and somehow it was like all the pain and anger and hurt they hadn’t worked out yet between themselves was starting to surface.  Louis felt weightless.  He couldn’t fight it any longer and came with a cry, shooting messy streaks across his stomach, Harry’s thighs and the clean sheets.  He felt the aftershocks through his body, Harry’s touch featherlight and almost reverent on his bum.

“God, Louis," Harry said after a moment, barest hint of a laugh in his husky voice.  "You are even more amazing than I thought you’d be.”

Louis’s head started to clear a little as Harry slipped his finger out and rolled him over on the bed so that they were lying next to each other.  He smoothed a thumb over Louis’s cheek as they gazed into each other’s eyes, both trying to understand something and getting lost in the sex.  “I’ll be completely honest,” Harry murmured, reaching down to dip his fingers into the mess on Louis’s stomach, casually painting a heart.  “I think I needed that.”

Louis agreed with a halting nod, chest tightening.  “I know.”  He didn’t want to give either of them any more time to reflect, didn’t want to think, didn’t want to talk.  So he slid down the bed and tugged Harry’s thighs open, not stopping to tease before licking a broad stripe up the underside of his dick and taking him into his mouth.

“Shit, Lou,” Harry gasped.  Louis moaned around Harry’s cock, letting spit dribble messily down his chin as he parted his lips over the sensitive head and swirled his tongue, reveling in the taste and feel of it.  “Jesus Chr…”  He couldn’t get any more words out after that, and Louis smiled to himself as he kissed up the wet side of Harry’s shaft and took him down once, twice.  His own cock was rapidly filling up again as he lay between Harry’s thighs servicing him -- not surprising, really, not after his long dry spell and _Harry,_ this was…  Louis felt an illicit shiver through his heart.

He popped off one last time, leaving Harry panting and shaky on the bed.  Slid up to straddle his long torso, teasing Harry’s nipples with his fingers, leaning down to tongue, to suck.  He felt Harry’s warm hands travel searchingly up his back to grasp fistfuls of his hair, body arching under Louis’s touch.

“M’gonna fuck you into the mattress,” Harry said, low and broken.  Louis was sure Harry could feel it when his breath hitched, toes curling in anticipation.  He raised his head, and they gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

Then Harry was pulling him down, kissing him with almost scary intensity as he flipped them over.  His hands kneaded Louis’s arms, then his chest; he seemed turned on to the point of frenzy, as if he didn’t know which part of Louis he wanted to touch first.  Finally he settled on Louis’s waist, straddling him and pinning him to the sheets as he reached over to the nightstand and fumbled for lube.  Louis threw his head back, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath -- the sight of Harry looming over him, naked, with his arse grinding into the soft skin just above Louis’s cock, was bringing him back to that place where he’d been unable to pace himself, to control his own orgasm.

Shit knows what was going to happen when Harry was in him.

When he opened his eyes again, he almost laughed.  Harry had made the mistake of slicking up his fingers before opening the tough wrapper of a condom; it was squirting through his hands now as Harry bit his lip with stormy concentration.

“Are you clean?” Louis asked.  “I am.  Clean.”

Harry’s hands stuttered, unopened condom falling over the side of the bed.  Harry sucked in a breath.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he said, sliding an eager finger down to circle Louis’s rim.  “Fuck, okay.  Me too.  I’m trusting you.”

Maybe it was a little reckless, and maybe they really, really weren't thinking through all of the potential consequences, but Louis just opened his legs subtly, making a soft noise in his throat as he felt Harry press in.  God, they were doing this.  The stretch felt _so_ good as Harry quickly added another finger, scissoring him open; it had been way too long since Louis had gotten himself off like this.  He’d almost forgotten how fucking great it felt.  And if Harry was clumsy with darts and salad forks and pencils, you wouldn’t know it from how gently and precisely he was fingering Louis.  This was bringing out his other levels… just like intricate cello fingerings or the careful flick of his baton -- Louis had to bite down on his lip, _hard,_ when an image of Harry standing on his podium in his tux flashed behind his eyes.

“More,” he gasped, bucking beneath Harry as he added a third finger, angling to find his spot.  He felt the soft brush of curls at his cheek.  Harry kissed down his chest, fucking him at a torturously slow pace that was apparently designed to drive Louis mad.  “Please,” he blurted, immediately embarrassed at how needy his voice sounded.  “Harry, please…”

“What do you want?” he asked.

Louis threw his head back, exasperated.  “You know what I fucking want, Styles.”

“Wanna hear you say it, though.”  Louis thought he saw Harry’s left hand slip down to circle the base of his cock, gripping it to keep himself from coming.  But it could have been his imagination.  He grumbled, hoisting himself up on his elbows to look directly into Harry’s lust-blown eyes.

“Harry Edward Styles, I want you to put your cock inside me and fuck me really goddamn hard.”

“All right, Louis William Tomlinson.”  His words were joking, but his voice wavered.  Louis eased himself back down, wrapping his legs around Harry’s back and squeezing, grinding his ass onto Harry’s hard length.  Harry made sure he was slick enough, then drove back against Louis’s strong thighs so that he could line himself up.

Louis cried out when Harry slowly pushed past his rim.  He was so _big,_ fuck.  The stretch was painful, but Louis only wanted more.  He felt Harry stop, unsure.  “You can… please,” he whimpered.  Then Harry was fucking into him, filling him up, and Louis couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my god,” Harry moaned as he bottomed out.  “I can’t believe I’m doing this with you.”  He grimaced in concentration, closing his eyes, full lips bunched and then parting as he gasped slightly with sensation.

Louis shifted beneath him.  “This really was a teenage fantasy of yours, wasn’t it?”

Harry chuckled and rocked gently inside Louis.  “Yes.  Shut up.”

“Make me.”

That got Harry moving, and Louis turned his head to hide a smile in the pillow.  It faded a moment later when Harry adjusted his angle and hit his spot.  Louis squeezed his thighs, meeting Harry’s thrusts as he picked up speed.

“Fuck, _fuck,”_  Louis breathed.

“Knew you couldn’t stay quiet,” Harry said, but his voice was fond.  He started to snap his hips, chasing heat and friction, movements more assured now.  Louis’s head was back in the clouds; he had the funny sensation that he was rising up, up, up… even as Harry fucked him down into the sheets.  They were working so well together, Jesus; that was a surprise.  Louis realized right before he came for the second time that he was having the best sex of his life.  His cock jumped on his stomach and he clenched around Harry, spurting come all the way up his chest to his chin, moaning loudly with release.

“Do you want me to…?”

“If you stop I’ll fucking kill you,” he muttered when Harry hesitated.  Louis took the opportunity to push himself up and grasp the back of Harry’s neck, pulling himself into a sitting position.  He ground down onto Harry’s cock, taking control of the pace.

Harry’s eyelids fluttered shut, his hands hovering over Louis’s waist as Louis bounced up and down, moving his hips in filthy circles, writhing in Harry’s lap like a stripper.  He leaned forward to nip at Harry’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and teasing into him with little flicks of his tongue.  “Come on, babe.  Fill me up.”

Harry responded to the command like he’d been hit with a bolt of lightning.  His body tensed.  He groaned and thrust up one more time, shuddering as he emptied himself into Louis.  He gasped, rocking up with little jerks as he rode it out, palms squeezing Louis’s hips, long fingers digging into his throbbing arse.  He moaned, ducking down to bite helplessly at Louis’s shoulder.

Finally he was still.  Louis waited a few moments to ease up, letting Harry’s softening cock slip out of him with a little hiss of breath from Harry at the change in sensation.  “Jesus,” he said.  His arse was a bit painful, causing him to wince slightly as he arranged himself on his side, feet wrapped in the messy sheets.  “You came forever.”

Harry blinked, like he was just waking up and figuring out where he was.  “Makes sense,” he mumbled, voice rough.  “I waited forever.”

Louis pulled the sheet up over him, finding a dry section to wrap around his waist as he sank back into the pillow.  Harry’s mattress was softer than his own, like lying on a cloud.  “Mmm…”  Louis felt himself come down, the adrenalin leaving his system and an aching tiredness washing in behind it.  “Do you mind if I stay ‘til tomorrow?” he asked, grogginess slurring his words a bit.  “Can leave if you want…”

“No,” Harry said, quickly.  “Of course you can…  Please stay.”

Louis sighed contentedly and snuggled down into the fluffy comfort of the bed.  “G’night then, Styles,” he mumbled.  He closed his eyes and felt the weight of Harry’s warm body stretch out beside him, not quite touching.  _Okay,_ Louis thought.  _We aren’t going to cuddle or anything.  That’s fine with me._  It just confirmed his original sense that this was going to be a one night stand.

Usually he went over fingerings in his head, visualizing whatever he was working on that day until sleep slowly crept up on him.  Tonight, though, it was as if Harry had fucked away every note.  Louis could only focus on the burn in his arse, letting the sweet ghost of Harry’s cock lull him into unconsciousness.

*

When he woke, it was to music.  The bed was empty and cold, and the soft strains of a cello floated up from the ground floor of the loft.  It was still nighttime, but the rain had stopped and the moon had come out from behind the clouds to shine through Harry’s big glass windows.  A shaft of bright light bathed Louis’s face, making him blink as he slowly came awake.

He recognized the notes immediately.  _Le Cygne_ _,_ from Camille Saint-Saëns’s _Le carnaval des animaux._  Not a technically difficult piece, and Harry was playing it very quietly -- probably so as not to wake him.  But Louis’s breath caught as he listened, hearing moonlight in the shimmering droplets of water that were still clinging to the panes of glass, a flowing tangle of white sheets and the peace of the night after the storm.  A perfect mood.

Louis quietly left the bed and padded barefoot down the spiral staircase.  He froze when he reached the bottom, hand gripping tight to the cold iron rail.  Harry was facing him, sitting naked behind his cello with his eyes closed.  He was arrestingly beautiful.  The muscles in his bowing arm danced, pale upper body swaying ever so slightly with the swells of the music.  Louis couldn’t breathe.  He felt he was intruding on a private moment, something intimate, but he also couldn’t leave, couldn’t look away.  It was the first time he’d heard Harry play since they were both children.

It was exquisite.  Everything about Harry seemed to pierce Louis’s heart: the expression on his face, the fluid movement of his body, and most of all the sounds, the emotion he was able to put so effortlessly into his playing.  In the back of his mind, Louis was aware that Harry had always been known primarily for his emotionality.  He had been remarkable as a boy.  A prodigy, famous before he could drive a car or buy a beer.  But the man that was sitting in front of Louis now, casually cracking his soul in two on an elementary piece written for students, was…  _Genius,_ Louis admitted with a strange feeling of hollow, lonely longing.  _He’s a genius._  The realization reverberated dully in his head as Harry frowned slightly, leaning into an upstroke as he neared the gentle climax of the piece.

Tears bloomed Louis’s eyes and he turned away.  He didn’t want Harry to realize he was being watched, didn’t want to linger until the end.  He stepped softly up the stairs, feeling a sharp, suffocating ache in his chest because Harry had what he’d always been missing.  Louis could play anything with technical precision.  He could stay perfectly in tune, hitting the right sound at all times (even in thirteenth position); he could sautillé anywhere on the fingerboard; he could produce perfect double-stopped harmonics in his sleep and play flawless ascending pizzicatos.  He could even command a section of other violinists and coax professional, polished performances out of them.  He knew all that.  But the reason he’d never quite broken through to the level of fame Harry had achieved, had never become a household name, was because he lacked emotionality.  He could _express_ emotion in his playing -- at least, he tried.  But it was never as natural as what he’d just heard from Harry.  It never would be.  Louis just didn’t have it.  There was some stunted part of him that couldn’t expand, and so the album deals hadn’t come, and the career as a solo artist hadn’t come.  Nothing had come.

Louis took in a shuddering breath, sitting on the side of the bed while Harry drew out one last, soft note.  _That will never be me, doing that._  He blinked, and wiped the tears off his cheeks as soon as he heard Harry carefully putting away his instrument.  Louis lay down, tucking the sheet up tight around him.

The jealous part of him almost didn’t want to share the bed when Harry came back up.  But the thought of not sharing it was somehow worse, so he stayed and pretended to be asleep.  He waited until he heard Harry snoring softly.  Then he took a deep breath and forced his mind into a state of quiet, low notes echoing in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcBGsjPky0c) is Don Juan. The death shivers at the end are the best.
> 
> And [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b44-5M4e9nI) is Le Cygne; it makes both of us over-emotional.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is proud of me for not getting TOO distracted by Louis's fucking HEADBAND (aaahhh deathhh) to post this! :D

Louis was trying to concentrate.  He fiddled with the fine tuner on his E string, shifting his weight in his chair as he waited for Harry to come out from wherever he was hiding and lead rehearsal.  It was a short one today, just an hour or so in the late morning to go over notes on their opening performance and prepare for tonight’s repeat.  They’d perform the same program again on Sunday afternoon, and once more for BBC Radio on Tuesday.  Then everyone would get a full week of vacation before rehearsals were set to begin for Harry’s second concert cycle.

“I can already feel the Madeiran sun,” Eleanor said, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair.

“We’re not off quite yet,” Louis grumbled, shifting around again, trying to get comfortable.  His whole body was sore.  Lovebites littered his upper chest and his neck -- he couldn’t stop checking to make sure the highest one wasn’t peeking out too far above his collar -- and he could still feel Harry’s dick in his arse.  It was very distracting.

“Shut up while I’m tanning,” Eleanor murmured.  She eyed him coolly from her relaxed position, taking in his erratic, flustered movements and frowning slightly.  “You’re weird this morning.  What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Louis snapped.  “Didn’t sleep well.”

“And you ran into your door, right?”

Louis slapped a hand over his neck and glared at her.  She smirked back at him.  They both sat up straighter as Harry finally emerged from the corridor at the back of the hall and strode toward the podium.  Louis kept his head buried determinedly in his music, refusing to meet Harry’s eye.  He’d left the loft early that morning, around 7 a.m., intending to sneak out.  Instead he’d come down the spiral staircase to the sight of Harry cooking breakfast potatoes and pancakes in tiny black boxer briefs.

“Morning, Lou,” Harry had grinned at him.  “Your plate’s already on the table.”

But Louis had forced out a stammered excuse (ignoring Harry’s slightly disappointed expression and the delicious smell of hot food), grabbed his coat and left to hail a taxi.  Harry at night, in the dark, flashes of skin and tattoos and stiff dick as they fucked was one thing. Harry in the early morning, long and lean and almost naked, soft, sex-mussed curls and sleepy eyes, was too much for him to handle.

It was no big deal, Louis reasoned.  It was over.  The breakfast was just a polite gesture.  Legendary Styles charm, and all that.   _He’s probably worked out his little fixation…  I’m always -- I’m always a bit underwhelming anyway.  Yeah, I probably looked good to him back when he was a frustrated teenager.  I can see that.  Now, though…_  Louis sighed, fixing his unstyled fringe and risking a glance up at Harry as he spread out some notes on his stand.  He was so gorgeous.  And entirely out of Louis’s league in so many ways.

Harry cleared his throat, tapping the side of his leg with two of his long, pale fingers.  (The same ones that had been inside Louis the night before.   _Oh, God._ )  “Hello,” he began.  “Good morning, everyone.”

Louis muttered an unenthusiastic “good morning” along with the rest of the orchestra, wishing he were invisible.  Thankfully, Harry didn’t look at him.  He seemed to be avoiding the entire violin section, focusing instead on the brass sitting at the back.

“So, that was certainly a well-received performance,” Harry said.  The orchestra chuckled -- they’d all heard Grimshaw crowing ecstatically about their success, and read some of the rave reviews that were already popping up online.  “I managed to talk to quite a few of you at the reception, but in case I haven’t done so in person yet, I want to thank each and every one of you for your effort and dedication.  And the trust you’ve put in me.  Especially that.”

Louis ducked his head, refusing to be one of the expectant faces that were no doubt smiling up at Harry right now.  He jiggled his right knee impatiently, trying to ignore the faint ache in his arse.

“I’m sure everyone is aware of the tempo issues we had with _Don Juan_ last night.  They arose organically, in --” Harry coughed, “the heat of the moment, but they turned out to be absolutely brilliant.  I’d like to try to replicate them for the rest of our performances.  So let’s take it from the top, please.  Tomlinson’s going to push.  But watch for my pull.”

Louis felt a thrill up his spine as Harry said his name.  It had dropped off his lips casually, as though he were just anyone.  Any section leader in any orchestra Harry had led.  Louis had to shake out his arms before raising Thunder to his chin, finally training his eyes on Harry’s baton as the violins waited for their cue.

They ran through the entire first half of the piece in fits and starts, quickly adjusting to the new tempo concept.  Louis’s head cleared as soon as he began playing, laser focus on the music and the music only.  He could feel Harry’s gaze on him more and more during the course of rehearsal, but his brain only noted it as a neutral fact, like the air temperature or Gerald Courtenay’s terrible comb-over.  The orchestra was sounding _good_.  Better even than last night, now that they were toying with the tempo in a more organized, intentional fashion.

Just when the violins were in the midst of a really difficult run right in the heart of the piece, Harry cut them off.  Louis’s bow bounced off his strings with a raspy jolt.  He flexed his fingers and licked his lips, irritated.  He hadn’t heard any mistakes; things had just been heating up…

“Excellent job, everybody,” Harry said, abruptly.  “I’m wrapping up rehearsal a bit early.  Tonight’s going to be great, absolutely nothing to worry about.  Tomlinson, in my office, please.  Now.”

Louis rolled his eyes as he gathered up his sheet music, ignoring Eleanor’s curious glances.

“What’s he want to see _you_ for?”

Louis shrugged.  “Nothing good, trust me.”  The genuinely pained look on his face must have been enough to convince her, because she just chuckled and stood up, brushing her hair over her shoulders.

“Have fun,” she said, before flouncing off to put away her instrument.

Louis slowly wiped the rosin off Thunder’s strings, sorting his music unnecessarily before shuffling it neatly together and stowing it in his black leather folder.  He’d been hoping to get out of this thing without having to talk about it.  Had been kind of naively wishing Harry would just let it lie forever, leave the rejection part unsaid.   _Makes sense, though,_ he thought to himself as he ran out of things to fuss over.  He pulled the zipper shut, picked up his violin case and started trudging to the back of Jerwood Hall, everyone else streaming around him as they headed toward the front entrance.   _He’s my boss; he initiated it.  So technically he’s the one who overstepped professional boundaries.  He probably feels the need to let me down easy so I don’t like… I don’t know.  Sue him for sexual harassment._

Louis snorted.  As if he’d ever want to tell anyone else what had happened.  He was embarrassed enough about Harry having been there to see him come in a matter of minutes just from being spanked.  The sense of failure and humiliation that Louis had been keeping at bay for years with his strict practice schedules and acidic barbs seemed to be pressing in on him tighter and tighter these days.

“Ugh.”  Louis was now standing outside the closed door of Harry’s office.  He was disgusted with himself.  And afraid to knock.

Just as he raised his closed fist to rap on the door, the knob turned and it opened.

“Fucking finally,” Harry muttered, grabbing Louis by a belt loop and pulling him in.  Louis heard the latch click shut behind them as Harry dragged him over to the desk, breath hot on his neck.  “What took you so long?”

“Er...”

Harry pulled back, gazing at Louis hungrily.  “Can I blow you?”  His eyes were large and expressive, and there was something in them Louis couldn’t quite place.  A quiet sort of recklessness.  Or a hopeful -- a hopeful look, maybe.

 _“Please,_ Lou...”

Louis’s breath caught, unsure if this was really happening or whether he was suddenly hallucinating the fittest guy he’d ever had embarrassing sex with wanting, for some reason, to do it with him again.  He just nodded dumbly.

Harry made a desperate, crazed sound in the back of his throat.  Then he dropped to his knees and shoved Louis’s jumper up, undoing the bottom three buttons of the polo he was wearing underneath.  Louis bit his lip to keep from moaning when he felt Harry nosing at his waistband, tongue licking slow circles, sucking bruises into the soft skin at his hips.  Adding to the collection, really.  Louis had never been with someone who was so obsessed with marking him, and he wondered what it meant.

Now Harry’s palm was ghosting over the growing bulge in Louis’s trousers, and Louis let out a huff of frustrated breath.  “Are you going to keep teasing me, Styles, or am I going to have to get it out myself and slap you about the face with it?”

Harry began to make muted, obscene noises -- like he was trying to hold back, failing to stay quiet -- and Louis felt a little bit of his self-confidence returning.  He wasn’t going to deny reality; Harry obviously wanted him.  Maybe he’d been in a long dry spell, or maybe…  But then Harry used his teeth to unzip Louis’s flies, and Louis’s brain stopped functioning.

He was already stiff -- heavy and aching -- when Harry pulled his cock out of his pants, tasting just the tip of him before pressing soft kisses down the side of his shaft.  Louis took a deep breath, preparing to fight to make this last as he leaned back against the desk.  But then Harry’s lips were around him, warm and wet, taking him down without warning.  Louis’s knees buckled; he let out a small gasp.  “What’s gotten into you, anyway?”

“Do you… _know..._ what you look like when you’re playing?” Harry breathed in between sucking Louis.  His eyelids fluttered, cheeks tinted pink as he lapped up the underside of Louis’s cock, swirling his tongue around and getting into a rhythm.  Louis almost couldn’t comprehend how full Harry’s mouth was of him, God, just the sight of it alone was enough...  He shakily removed his left hand where it was clinging, white-knuckled, to the edge of the desk and slipped it into Harry’s curls, rubbed his thumb soothingly along Harry’s hairline before tugging.  Just lightly, but it caused Harry to gasp.

He gazed up at Louis, eyes glassy, mouth red-rimmed.  Lips swollen and wet.

“You look like a sex fantasy,” Louis breathed.

Harry grinned softly in response and nuzzled his cheek into Louis’s hand.  Louis scratched at his scalp and felt Harry melt under him.  “You like that, love?” he asked, giving his hair another experimental tug.

Harry just put his lips on his cock and moaned.  He sounded raw, filthy.  Louis had to give himself a moment before he got a surer grip on Harry’s curls.  He gave a firm tug, fucking forward, guiding himself slowly back into Harry’s mouth.  Harry’s hands came up from where he’d been pressing on the front of his tight, hipster jeans to grip Louis’s thighs.  He took a sharp breath in through his nose as Louis’s cock hit the back of his throat.  But he didn’t fight it.

“T-this is...” Louis muttered.   _“Shit,_ Styles.”  He inhaled deeply and thrust into Harry’s mouth again, down his throat.  Over and over until Harry’s eyes were watering, nose brushing the hair below Louis’s bellybutton and Louis’s balls slapping him on the chin with every stroke.  But Harry didn’t shy away.  He slid his hands around to grip the backs of Louis’s thighs, pulling him in, _helping_ him.  Louis grunted as he snapped his hips forward, trying not to look at Harry all the way because the sight of him with his full, red lips wrapped around his hard cock and the flush creeping over his skin, the messy curls and the tear-stained cheeks…  it was too much.  It was too much even to think about, fuck.

Louis’s whole body was unbearably hot.  There was a sweat sheen on his forehead; he felt overheated in his jumper, breathing uneven and ragged and he was close now.  So fucking close.  He gave Harry’s forelock a sharp tug to warn him, let Harry pull back and open his _fucking mouth_ so that Louis could see himself spurting over his lips and his chin, angling down his throat.  When Harry’s pink tongue darted out to lick up some of the mess, Louis nearly fainted.

“Jesus, Styles.  Ged ‘ere.”  Harry smiled dopily as Louis pulled him up by the elbows and pressed their bodies together.  He snuck his hand down to grope at Harry’s crotch.  Just as his fingers closed around the hard line of Harry’s dick, still tightly encased in denim, Harry froze.

“What?” Louis asked softly, rubbing the pad of his thumb down over the bulging zipper.

“I’m gonna come in about a second and a half,” Harry gasped, his face screwed up in concentration.

Louis made quick work of undoing his flies and tugging his pants down to free his cock.  Harry let out a deep moan when he touched it, shooting a hot load instantly through Louis’s fingers and over some papers on his desk.

“Oops,” Louis laughed.

“Shit,” Harry whimpered, after simply breathing for a few moments.  “Those are my notes.  I’m going to have to re-write those.”

Louis just chuckled, grabbing a tissue to clean him up before easing him back into his trousers.  “Where’s all your stamina gone, then?” he teased.  “This isn’t the Harry Styles who fucked me for ages last night.”

Harry rolled his eyes, gingerly peeling up the top page of his come-stained notebook.  “Are you joking?  I was late meeting you because I had to rush to the toilets for a quick wank to have any chance at all of lasting.  You’re so…”  He stopped himself and bit his lip ruefully, accepting another tissue from Louis to wipe off the rest of his face.

“Terrible at aiming?” Louis asked, and Harry burst out into a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth in delight as his shoulders shook.

“Hot.”

Louis snorted, looking down at himself.  Patterned jumper his mum had given him for his birthday, rumpled chinos sagging around his thighs, softening dick still out.  “Sure, Harry.”  He straightened up and tried to make himself presentable again.  Like maybe he hadn’t just accidentally fucked his boss for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

“So.  If that was all you, er, wanted…”  Louis cleared his throat and picked up his violin case, which had been set down unceremoniously between the trash can and the chair.

“Wait,” Harry said.  He reached out and snagged Louis’s elbow, drawing him in for a kiss.  His lips were soft, eager, and he tasted like come and citrus.  Louis felt his heart flutter as Harry brought his hand up to caress his cheek.  When they broke apart, Harry sighed and grinned sheepishly.  “Was that okay?  I feel like I…  I can’t help kissing you.”

Louis answered by pressing his lips into Harry’s left dimple.  He didn’t trust himself to speak.  Instead he just winked, and headed out the door with a bit of a smug smile on his face.

 _It’s going to happen again,_ he thought a few minutes later as he took a seat on the tube.  A little thrill of excitement zipped up his spine at the realization.   _It’s going to happen a lot.  Oh my god, I’m fucking Harry Styles._  Louis’s head was spinning.  He’d see him again tonight, and then tomorrow for the Sunday afternoon concert.   _Is that too soon?  To… to make a move?_  Louis shivered.  When he thought about actually doing it, walking up to Harry Styles and putting his hands on him, he felt a flutter of nerves.  He wasn’t sure he could.  Wasn’t sure what the rules were, what was allowed.   _God, his body.  I’m going to die if I don’t touch him again._  Harry Styles, the too-earnest, too-annoyingly-talented camper.  Harry Styles the celebrity, with the abs and the tats.  Harry Styles the klutz.  Harry Styles the world-class cellist.  He’d never had so many different versions of one person in his head all at the same time.

Harry Styles the unbelievable sex god...

Louis wondered if he had any disposable contacts left at home -- he’d been wearing his glasses out of laziness so much recently.  And some hair product.  Maybe he’d try to quiff his hair for the performance tonight, get it off his forehead for once.  Maybe then he wouldn’t have to figure out what the rules were; maybe Harry would whisper something in his ear again and they’d end up somewhere backstage, or in his office…  Louis gazed down at his stomach, the nape of his neck embarrassingly heated.  He poked at his waistline with one finger.  Had his gym membership lapsed?

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he muttered aloud.  “It’s just sex…”

The flat rush of the train drowned out every other melody, obliterating Louis’s little threads of composition like a steamroller as he jiggled his knee in time.

_Just sex._

_Just sex._

 

Don Juan died for the last time.  He shivered and lay still.

The BBC producer nodded, cut the recording, and Harry brought his arms down to his sides.  The sparse crew applauded, and Harry directed his orchestra to stand and bow.  “Well done,” he said.  He glanced at Louis and gave him a special, shy smile, feeling his heart warm as he met his concertmaster’s dancing blue eyes.

“That’s it, everybody,” he smiled.  “Have a good week; I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

The lingering aura of classical music was wiped away by the ugly sounds of scraping chairs and clattering equipment, radio crew packing up and members of the orchestra chatting as they went through their individual post-performance rituals.  Harry stood with his hands behind his back, hip slightly cocked as he watched them.  Well, as he pretended not to watch Louis.

They hadn’t been alone since Saturday afternoon.  Not that Harry didn’t desperately _want_ to be alone with Louis again, but he’d initiated sex twice now -- rather forcefully -- and he didn’t fancy his chances if he came on too strong.  He kept waiting for Louis to approach him, make some excuse for them to slip away together.  But nothing unprofessional had happened between them, or been hinted at, in the last three days.

And now they weren’t going to see each other for a whole week.

 _Stop being ridiculous,_ Harry told himself.   _You’re not dating.  You’re work colleagues who’ve fucked a few times; it’s not exactly a grand romance.  Louis is obviously a normal adult with normal adult self-control.  Whereas you, Harry Styles, are the same embarrassment you always were… immediately gone for him despite many indications that he does not share your feelings, and horny all the god damn time._

 _He kissed you,_ whispered another part of his brain.

 _On the cheek,_ the first part countered.

_Like he’s fond of you…_

_Or like he still sees me as a child._

Harry shook his head.  He was in a muddle; there was nothing to be done, and he’d just have to deal with the odd tightness in his chest for the next seven days.

A noise from the back of the hall jolted him out of his reverie.  Some scuffling and shoving, whispering that carried with the acoustics.

“It’s called a double bass.”

“No, it’s a bull fiddle!  That’s what me dad calls it…”

“Well, what’s he expect people to do, take it to America and ride it in a cowboy rodeo?  The _proper term,_ Oliver, is double bass.”

Harry turned his head slowly, just enough to catch a glimpse of a girl and a boy out of the corner of his eye.  They were both clutching ¼ size violins, sponges sloppily strapped to the chin rests with rubber bands, though the girl was obviously a few years older than the boy.  Her hand was around his shoulder protectively as they huddled in one of the doorways, peeking out at the activity in the hall.

“I think you can call it both,” the boy whispered.  His eyes were round as he stared at the big BBC microphones and the adult musicians packing up sheet music and chatting in small groups.

“Not if you want to be _right.”_

“Shut up!”  The boy pouted, wiggling his whole body and shaking her hand off her shoulder.  “Get your face away from me.”

“Your face is the dumbest,” the girl whispered.

Harry couldn’t help turning around and laughing, toes pointed inward and hands still clasped behind his back as he faced them.

“Oh, shit,” the little boy squeaked.  “The instructor’s looking at us.”

“Don’t say shit.  And he’s called a conductor, not an instructor.  This isn’t a _class,_ Oliver.  It’s a real orchestra!”  She said the last bit with so much enthusiasm, other heads turned.  The girl’s eyes went as wide as the boy’s, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What have we got here?” Gerald Courtenay muttered, easing up to Harry.

“Church mice,” he winked.  “A fine pair of them.”  He held up his hand to Gerald, indicating that he would deal with the situation, and calmly stepped off his podium.  The children sank back into the recessed arch of the doorway.  Harry smiled in what he hoped was a friendly, non-threatening way as he strode up to them.

“Hello,” he said.  “What are your names?”

“Harry Styles, oh my god!” the girl shrieked.  She stepped behind the boy, hand on his shoulder again and her violin tucked protectively under her arm.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Harry Styles.  What a fascinating coincidence; that’s my name, too.”  Harry grinned down at them, holding out his hand to shake.  The girl rolled her eyes, apparently as unimpressed with Harry’s sense of humor as certain other violinists he could mention.

“I’m Oliver Abbey,” the boy said, matter-of-factly, taking Harry’s hand and pumping it few times.  “She’s Sophie.  She’s just in my class downstairs.  I don’t know her last name.”

“Becker,” Sophie hissed with the flash of a frown, addressing Oliver rather than Harry.

“You’re both doing the beginner’s workshop this week, then?”

They nodded.

“And you snuck away from class to come hear us play?”

The boy began to nod again, but Sophie grabbed the sides of his head and covered his mouth with one hand.  “We got lost,” she said.  She put on a theatrical pout and sighed deeply.  “We’re just little kids, and we don’t know where to go…”

“Mhmm,” Harry said.  “I see.”

An idea was starting to take shape in his head.  Something to keep him busy during the off week, a volunteer-y, for-the-children sort of project which, if he could get other members of the orchestra involved, would be a lovely thing for the LSO to do.  Foster new talent.  Inspire young minds.  Serve as an excuse for Harry to see Louis every day.  All nice.   _And it would be seventy-five percent non self-serving,_ Harry thought, nodding to himself.   _At least seventy-five percent.  Heck, could be eighty-five.  I’m a wonderful person._

“What’s your instructor’s name?” he asked.

“Miss Julia,” Sophie replied.

“Okay,” Harry smiled, tucking his baton into the back pocket of his skinny jeans -- the one without the large hole ripped in it, safety pins haphazardly holding the flap of denim in place -- and offered a hand to each of them.  “Let’s go find Miss Julia, shall we?”

He snuck a glance over his shoulder as he led them out of the hall, but he didn’t see Louis anywhere.  Must have finished packing up and just left…  Harry felt an odd sinking feeling in his chest, but he plastered on a smile and asked Oliver and Sophie what they were learning to play.

“Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” Oliver said, pronouncing all of his syllables very carefully.

 _“I’m_ up to Minuet Three.”

“Sounds like you’re both working hard,” Harry said.  They rounded a corner and were met with the flat, buzzing sound of about thirty amateur violinists all playing _Perpetual Motion_ at the same time.  When they started in on the double time section, it sounded like a hive of angry bees.  Harry grinned and bit his lip with delight.

“Here we are,” he said.  The music died as they walked into the small classroom, and Harry felt a twinge in his back from having been stooped over too long.  “Er, hello.”  He gazed out over the sea of small faces to lock eyes with the adult instructor, a middle-aged woman with sunburnt skin and blonde hair that hung down to her waist in two thick braids.  “I think I’ve found something of yours.”

“Oliver!” she frowned.  “Sophie!  Where on earth…”

“They got a bit turned around looking for the toilets, I gather,” Harry lied.  He felt Sophie squeeze his hand.  He released them and they scurried off into their place in the back of the classroom, where they immediately started to elbow each other and whisper.  “I’m Harry,” he said with a grin and a half-wave.  “And you’re Julia?  One of the instructors for the children’s workshop?”

“Yes,” she nodded, looking a bit starstruck.  “I know who you are, of course.”

“D’you think I could have a quick word?  I have an idea I want to run by you…”

Five minutes later, Julia was trying to round up thirty hyperactive children and Harry was practically skipping away from the classroom, high on his plan.  He walked through Jerwood Hall, finding it deserted except for a few janitors, and checked to see if anyone was waiting for him in his office.

_Nobody there.  Of course not.  Just checking, just checking…_

The practice rooms were all empty, too.  Vacation had officially begun.

Harry shrugged on his black trench, not bothering to button it against the light spring wind, and fished his phone out of his pocket as he left the church and started walking toward the tube.  He held the slim pink case to his ear, listening to static cut through the ringing.

“Weeeyyy, Hazza!”  Harry could barely hear Niall over the general din of pub noise in the background.  “Friend, friend.  What can I do for ye, friend?”  He was definitely already drunk.

“Nialler, how many orchestra members do you think we could scrape together by Friday?”

“Well, we’ve already got me.  And Zayn.  And the Tommo.  Come have a pint with us, H!  We’re at the Red Cow.”

It was just a couple blocks away, the same pub Niall had taken him to for his birthday back in early February, his first night in London.  Harry’s heart seized as he heard Louis’s voice in the background, high and bright, yelling something over the commotion and the jukebox.

“No,” he said, before he could think.  “No, I can’t.  But the orchestra…  You reckon we could get say, half of them to come in for a couple of days this week?  Would Gladys do it?”

“Sure.  And you can count me in.  What are we doing, though?”  Classic Niall, not thinking twice about sacrificing his pub time to do a friend a favor.

“Impromptu concert,” Harry said.  “Something fun for the kids in the children’s workshop.”

“Brilliant.  Sounds brilliant; I’ll tell the lads.  You’re sure you can’t come for a pint?”

“No, no…”  Harry felt his throat tighten up.  He didn’t think he could handle being around Louis right now, not in a casual setting where they’d have to act cool around each other.  “You boys have fun.  We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Liam’s just walked in!” Niall crowed.  “Hiya, Payno!  He could play triangle or summat, in a pinch.”

Harry laughed.  “I’m sure he could.”

Before they could say goodbye, he heard a scuffle on the other end of the line, and a familiar voice saying, “Who are you even _talking_ to?  You do talk some shit, Horan.”

Harry didn’t hang up, biting down a smile as he listened to the muffled sound of Niall’s voice, raised in protest.

“Well that’s just rubbish, isn’t it? …  No, I don’t think I will give it back.  Not until you’ve earned it…  Thirty push-ups; I fancy seeing pretty boys sweat.”

Harry pressed End after that, cheeks bright pink.  He tried to calm his breathing as he walked along the street, dodging around joggers and a group of tourists.  Turned down a side alley, taking a longer route to the Underground to avoid walking past the Old Red Cow.   _Get over it, weirdo.  Turn around.  Go have a drink with your friends; it’s no big deal._

He laughed ruefully to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked, because of course it was.  Of course it was.  There was no way he could pretend to himself that Louis Tomlinson was anything other than a very big deal, but obviously Louis didn’t feel the same.  He barely tolerated Harry, was probably kicking himself for sleeping with him.   _Why doesn’t he like me?  Why can’t I…_  “God,” he spat, bitterly.  Harry could never imagine Louis’s voice sounding as relaxed and easy with him as it had over the phone.  With his friends.  Even when they’d bantered in his office, taking lunch breaks together as they fought over _Don Juan,_ Louis had always sounded like he was in the middle of a real argument.  It was never really flirtatious, not to him.

“I’m just an idiot.”

“Sir?”

Harry blinked.  He’d made it to the Underground platform and was standing next to a nice-looking older gentleman with a ring of white hair.  “I’m just an idiot,” he said again, enunciating the words more clearly.

The man looked confused.  Harry shrugged, smiled, and stepped onto his train without another glance.

*

Two days later, the sheet music for _Peter and the Wolf_ was strewn all over Harry’s office at St. Luke’s.  It covered his entire desk, a section of the bookshelf, and large part of the floor.  Harry groused to himself as he sifted through it, bemoaning the fact that whoever had filed these scores away last had done so with a complete disregard for organization of any kind.  Normally Albie Jenkins, the music clerk, would handle this type of thing.  He’d taken the week off though, like so many of the musicians, and Harry had been unaware until he and Liam had gotten together the previous morning to wrangle volunteers from the orchestra and work out other logistical concerns.  Liam had brought him down to Albie’s library when they’d finished, a sympathetic look on his face.  He’d left Harry to fend for himself.

A clarinet part had just shot out of Harry’s grasp and started a slow float to the floor, flitting left and then right as it cut its way through the air, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Harry grumbled, distracted, as he leaned over to pick up the music.  He scrunched up his face in irritation when he saw the dark smudge the sheet had acquired on its back page from the dirty floor.  He should definitely thank Albie for his dedication and attention to detail when he got back, thank him with a direct and meaningful look into the eyes.  That way, the clerk would be sure to know just how much his services were appreciated around here.   _Might be a bit creepy,_ Harry mused, as he flipped the piece over to examine the front for any more traces of dirt, _maybe best to just buy him a tea..._

“‘S locked from out here.”  The sound of Louis’s voice was muffled through the heavy wood of the door, but his annoyance came through clear as bell as the knob rattled.  

“What?” Harry said, jumping a little, his heart revving up in his chest at the realization that it was Louis who’d knocked.  “Oh!  Oh, sorry.  Sorry!”  He ended up falling against the door a little, legs in a tangle as he rushed over.

“Sorry,” Harry said again, once it was opened.  He was unable to keep his mouth from twitching into a little smile at the sight of Louis, small and bright-eyed in front of him, hair swept off his forehead.  A little shock of adrenaline went straight to Harry’s heart at the memory of their previous two encounters in this office, his grip tightening on the clarinet part in his hand.

“What’re you doing?” Louis asked, brushing past him into the office and setting his violin case on Harry’s spare chair.  His brow furrowed in confusion as he looked at all the piles of paper.

Harry had to give himself a stern order not to jump Louis immediately, yet again.   _Cool it, you sex maniac.  For crying out loud._  “Albie’s in Majorca,” he sighed, averting his eyes as he went back to the stacks of music at his desk.

“Ah,” Louis said.  He moved toward the desk and picked up a random part.  Harry almost giggled, in spite of himself, happy when he saw Louis frown at the alto clef.  They both had an irrational and unfair distaste for violas.   

 _God._  What was it about Louis Tomlinson?  Harry had thought that maybe finally sleeping with him, _finally finally,_ would have taken the edge off a little.  In actuality, it seemed to have had the exact opposite effect.  Despite all the coaching he’d been giving himself over the past few days, repeatedly telling himself that Louis was apparently not interested and he needed to let it go, the truth was that Harry couldn’t even look at Louis anymore without feeling a powerful tug of lust low in his belly, a flash flood of heat surging through him.  Louis was just standing there, three feet away, watching Harry busy himself with his papers, and every single thought Harry was having was about whether he’d ever be able to get his hands on him again, run them slowly down his back and over the curve of his arse one more time, squeeze.   _Fuck._

“So,” Harry croaked, trying to pretend that the tremor in his fingers wasn’t noticeable.  He set the music for the French horns in a tidy little sheaf on the corner of his desk.  “What can I do for you?”

He blushed as soon he said it, his mind rewinding the clock four days, back to when he’d done _something_ for Louis, all right.  Gotten down on his knees and let Louis fuck his mouth, almost precisely where Louis was standing now.  Harry’s pulse beat in his cheeks, dick stirring to life in his pants, as he remembered the soft velvet slide of Louis’s perfect cock as it passed his lips, rougher and rougher, faster and faster, the heat of Louis’s thighs caging him in as he’d gone to work.   _Fuck._

Louis hadn’t noticed Harry’s agitation, though, didn’t seem all that aware of Harry at the moment.  He appeared to be lost in thought, distracted by Harry’s filing cabinet for some reason, glaring at the half-open top drawer and chewing his lip.

It was edging on mortifying, really, Harry’s utter lack of control.  How consumed he was with the fact that Louis’s body was right there, under his clothes.  He wanted to touch Louis _so_ badly.  He was just dying to reel him in for a kiss, but he’d been so brazen, had come on so strong.  He felt increasingly sure that he’d overwhelmed Louis already, and scared him off with the sick, throbbing intensity of his desire.

 _He kissed your cheek, though.  That was all him,_ Harry reminded himself, reaching up to touch his dimple, heart fluttering until the butterflies in his stomach died a toxic death, poisoned by his insecurity.  He cringed.   _Amazing, Styles.  Again with the cheek kiss.  Keep holding on to that.  Not pathetic at all._

“Hm?” Louis said idly, still eyeing up the the filing cabinet.  He turned back to Harry.  “Oh, right!”  

He dug into his satchel and produced what appeared to be a short stack of kelly green cocktail napkins.  

Louis cleared his throat.  “So,” he said, setting his bag on the floor and placing the napkins carefully atop Harry’s main score, in the center of his desk.  “I was out with Malik for a drink last night and we got to talking about _Peter and the Wolf_ and how we’d listened to it when we were kids and stuff.  We both remembered this lovely version of it our mums had, with a cassette recording and a book full of illustrations.”

He glanced up at Harry and paused to clear his throat.  Harry couldn’t believe how blue his eyes were, even in the weak light from the cruddy window behind him.  He nodded in encouragement, hoping Louis didn’t track the line of his gaze as he snuck a quick peek at Louis’s pink lips, unable to resist.

“Anyway, Zayn just started some doodles, while we were sitting there, of like the wolf and the duck and I thought they had real personality.”  He started to spread the napkins out across Harry’s desk one by one.  “So I um,” he laughed, “I encouraged him to draw the rest of the characters as well.”

Harry chuckled softly at Louis’s careful choice of words, wondering just how forcefully Zayn had been encouraged.  He ran a thoughtful finger over the lively, simple sketch of Peter in front of him.

“I thought,” Louis said, shrugging, “I dunno, might be nice to give each of the kids a little program with the drawings that they could keep.  I mean, Zayn could, you know, refine them or whatever.”

“That is a terrific idea, Louis,” Harry murmured, smiling as he picked up the wolf for a closer look.  "We can talk to him about it this afternoon.  Then I'll work it all out with Liam."  He giggled, after a pause.  "Hoping the kids’ll ask you for your autograph, then?  ‘Oh Mr. Tomlinson, sign my fancy program please!’"

Louis snorted and rolled his eyes.  "They'll want yours more than mine, anyway."  He turned his head, frowning at the filing cabinet again.  "Any reason this needs to be hanging open?  I keep thinking I'm going to smack an elbow on it."

"Oh," Harry said, coming around from behind his desk.  "No.  Sorry.  I only just found a set of keys to that thing this morning," he explained.  "I was messing around with it ‘cause I still can't get the bottom drawer opened.  'S weird.  I mean, usually you unlock the whole thing at once, you know?  It's jammed, I guess."

Harry gave the top drawer a gentle push, closing it all the way.  When he leaned down to tug on the handle of the bottom one, give it another try, he felt Louis's hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"I-I wouldn't yank too hard," Louis said, voice a little reedy.  "You'll probably just make it worse."

"Yeah," Harry replied reluctantly.  His heart felt a little swollen inside his chest because of Louis’s proximity, and the continued presence of his hand on his shoulder.  "I guess so," he shrugged, turning his head to brave a glance up at Louis’s face, struggling not to look as overeager as he felt.  "There was nothing in the top two drawers except this beginner piano version of 'A Whole New World.'”  He laughed, starting to ramble a little from nerves.  “You know, like from Aladdin.  Bizarre…  Anyway, I dunno, finding it just made me want to know what's in the bottom drawer even more.  I mean, I can hear something moving around when I try to open it..."  He yanked on the handle a few more times to demonstrate, listening to the mystery materials shift around.

Louis's eyes went momentarily wide, a strange apprehension veiling them before they narrowed in on Harry, heated and intent.  His grasp tightened on Harry’s shoulder and he guided him up into a standing position, pulling him away from the filing cabinet and back against the bookshelf to his right.  Louis's fingertips felt like little brands where they pressed into Harry’s muscle.

"You're probably -- you're probably right," Harry stammered, sucking in a breath, his pulse soaring as Louis edged closer.  “Should just…  I’ll just talk to maintenance.”  

Louis seemed to come back to himself then, suddenly aware of Harry’s overt physical reaction to his touch.  A blinking sort of hesitancy came over his features as he looked up at Harry from under his lashes, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should proceed.   _If he even wants to,_ Harry thought, disheartened.  It was embarrassing how transparent he was, how clearly and desperately he wanted this, given Louis’s evident reluctance.

“Lou…” he said quietly, pleading and resigned all at once.

Louis took a deep breath and bit his lip, moving his subtly shaking hand from Harry’s shoulder and sliding it around so he had a nice grip on the back of Harry’s neck.  Harry melted into the touch, a small sound escaping his lips.  That seemed to anchor Louis somehow, reassure him, maybe.  A hot, knowing twinkle began to form in his eye.   

"I'm mostly always correct," he whispered, tentative fingers threading into the curls at Harry’s nape, pulling on them lightly.  "Thought you knew by now, Styles..."

Harry's knees almost gave out when Louis's hand moved further up into his hair, his strong thumb rubbing firm circles at the base of Harry's skull.

 _"Louis."_  Harry moaned his name this time, shivering.  He'd been so preoccupied with thoughts of touching Louis that it hadn't occurred to him how he might react if Louis were to be the one to initiate physical contact instead.  As it turned out, he was almost entirely undone by it, completely pliant in Louis’s hands and aching for him.

“You’re the boss, though,” Louis teased in a drawl, apparently emboldened by Harry’s response.  He slipped his free hand up under Harry’s shirt and skimmed his knuckles over Harry’s abdomen, pressed two of them into Harry’s skin, just above his hip.  He smiled when Harry tensed from it, breath shuddering slightly.  “Don’t worry,” Louis promised, gently mocking.  “I won’t forget.”

Harry took another quick, ragged breath as Louis moved to cup his jaw, crowding all the way up against him.  “Your body, Harry,” he whispered, in awed disbelief.  Harry’s cheeks went a dusky pink and Louis smiled, rising up onto his toes and pressing his lips into Harry’s, just right.

The world blinked sideways, reality spinning away from Harry as the kiss gradually deepened.  Everything felt syrupy slow, his blood forceful and thick in his veins, limbs heavy.  Louis gently prised his mouth open, sliding their tongues together at last and Harry made a helpless, muted noise low in his throat, overcome by the intensity of the sensation.

“What do you want, Styles?” Louis asked in a breathless whisper, several minutes later.  He grazed his teeth along the side of Harry’s neck, grinding their hips together, the small, rhythmic circles of his pelvis so terribly perfect.  “You _are_ in charge, after all.”

Louis chuckled softly when Harry was unable to respond beyond a high, thin whine.  He rested his forehead against Harry’s collarbone as they momentarily caught their breath, running his hands up and down Harry’s bare arms.  Goose flesh spread across Harry’s skin almost in advance of Louis’s fingertips, his hair rising like metal filings to a magnet, as though his body were anticipating Louis’s touch and reaching out for it.

“Do you want my mouth, Maestro?” Louis whispered into his ear, deliberately pressing their cocks together through layers of clothing, edging his fingers along the line of Harry’s waistband.  “Is that what you want?”

All Harry could manage this time was a frustrated whimper of a groan.  He had been thinking about all of this for days, obsessing over it, longing for it.  Now that it was actually happening again, it felt a little like he’d lost his mind, like his brain had gone utterly clumsy under the weight of his desire.  Louis had him absolutely stupefied up against the bookshelves, prick straining against the zip of his jeans, so fat and hot and hard, aching for it.  Harry wanted everything all at once, and most of all Louis, but the ability to express any of that had deserted him.  He was shaking bodily under Louis’s full attention.  The gorgeous, radiant energy that emanated from Louis whenever he focused in on something was being directed entirely at Harry, and it was intoxicating and unnerving in equal measure.

He gasped when Louis palmed him once through his jeans, and then murmured something under his breath about unreasonable size before working to unzip them.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis hissed, as he freed Harry’s rosy dick from the confines of his boxer briefs.  He shook his head, sighing rather wistfully.   _“Such_ a pretty cock.”  He took Harry lightly in hand, getting a feel for him, and then bent down, kissing the head once, licking at the moisture that had collected at the slit.

Harry tensed at the feel of it, jolting fully upright and jerking his head back, hitting it hard against the row of books behind him.  He yelped reflexively at the burst of pain.  

They both dissolved into laughter seconds later, shaking silently at Harry’s general ridiculousness and the dramatic way Louis had popped up like an alarmed prairie dog to see what was wrong, immediately cradling the back of Harry’s head apologetically, like he was entirely to blame.

Harry still felt a bit of underlying embarrassment at the distressingly typical sex mishap, the back of his head smarting slightly.   _Pudgy little klutz from Dogwood Cabin, too dorky to receive a blow job._

It melted away though, when he saw that Louis was looking at him with dancing blue eyes, his face scrunched up in easy amusement.  “Sorry. Sorry,” Louis said, raising the back of his hand to his mouth to cover a giggle.

Harry thought he might shatter from how strikingly beautiful Louis was to him this way, unguarded and edging on openly affectionate.  A sharp, sweet pang of vulnerability bloomed in his chest and he had to ignore the creeping feeling that he was getting in way over his head.  Instead, he decided to concentrate on how much he wanted to be kissing Louis again, touching him, _having_ him, right this instant.

“Lou,” he mumbled, lurching forward and sweeping Louis into a fierce embrace, one hand on his hip and the other pressed between the wings of his shoulder blades.  Louis made a small noise of surprise and their legs tangled together, causing them to collapse onto the floor in front of Harry’s desk.  Louis came to rest on top of him and Harry hummed into their unbroken kiss, pleased, his blood singing in his ears.

Louis went up on his hands after a minute, arms on either side of Harry’s head.  He glanced down Harry’s body, to where his cock was still out of his pants, flushed and fully hard again.  Louis smirked, lips twitching.

“You’re not gonna smack your head on the floor if I put my mouth on it, are you?” he asked, breaking into laughter, eyes bright.

 _“Louis,”_ Harry groaned, covering his face with his hands.  He was mortified, strangely elated, and so turned on all at once.

Louis shrugged as he made his way down Harry’s body, settling in between his legs and smiling cheekily when Harry peeked at him through his fingers.  “Just want to be careful, Harry; we have a children’s concert to put on.  Can’t have you getting a concussion.  Not that way...”

Harry shook his head, mewling slightly and squirming as Louis began to stroke him steadily, using a firmer grip this time.  The pressure was just right, and he collected precome from the tip to ease the motion.

“Meant what I said before,” Louis whispered hoarsely, not taking his eyes off the smooth slide of his hand as he worked Harry over.  He bit his lip when Harry bucked up slightly into the circle of his fingers.  “Such a nice, nice cock.  So lovely.”

Harry had to squeeze his eyes tightly, moaning, and bite the inside of his cheek to keep from begging for more.  Something about the reverent way Louis was looking down at his penis, combined with the familiar, well-oiled movement of the violinist’s delicate wrist made Harry feel like it was too much, like he was going to come all over both of them any second.

“So lovely,” Louis murmured again.

Heat licked up from the bottom of Harry’s spine, locking his back muscles into an small arch as Louis pinned his hips to the ground and slowly took him into his mouth.  He sucked at the head of his cock, swirling his tongue around it before bobbing further down, taking Harry deeper and deeper.

 _“Fuck.”_  Harry’s breathing was erratic, his heartbeat frantic, sweat beading along his hairline.  He buried his hands deep into Louis’s thick, silken hair.  “Fuck, Louis.   _God._  Please...”

Louis peered up at him from beneath the sweep of his dark eyelashes and that was all it took.  Harry came hard with a strangled shout, pulsing hot down Louis’s throat without warning, pleasure washing over him in spiking waves.

“Lou,” he moaned, babbling semi-coherently, swimming in post-orgasmic bliss and forgetting any qualms he might have had about coming on too strong, about revealing too much.  “I want -- _Louis._  God.  I want you to fuck me.  So much.  Want you to fuck me.”

Thinking about the latent power in Louis’s slight frame, imagining how his hips would snap as he fucked into Harry, the muscles of his gorgeous arse flexing, made Harry’s face go even hotter than it already was.  Made him want to come all over again, straight away.

 _“Jesus Christ,_ Styles,” Louis choked out.  He was crouched between Harry’s thighs with a hand on his own dick, tugging at it furiously as he took Harry in, eyes heavily hooded and full of lust.  “‘S probably,” his breath hitched.  “‘S probably not practical r-right now.  I’m, ah.  I’m gonna --” and then he came into his hand, slumping forward onto Harry’s torso before rolling onto ground next to him.

Harry sat halfway up, quickly grabbing a few tissues from his desk and giving them to Louis so he could clean himself off.

His heart clenched when Louis stretched out alongside him, pillowing his head onto Harry’s softly rising chest.  Harry sighed deeply, and had to swallow over an inexplicable lump of emotion when he breathed in the scent of Louis’s hair.  It was sharp and rich, but still clean, even though Louis’s body was so hot next to his.  There was a sheen of sweat across his forehead, a dark flush high on the cut of his cheekbones.  Harry wanted to burrow his nose into the roots of Louis’s hair then, drink him in, make a memory of him -- but even having the to urge to do so felt a bit dangerous.  Like he was already reaching for a type of intimacy that might not even be on the table.  He still didn’t know what Louis wanted, how he felt about what was happening, really.  Harry closed his eyes and settled for sliding his fingers through Louis’s hair instead, hoping he’d get away with it, that the subtle shaking would be attributed to normal post-coital twitchiness.

Louis was quiet next to Harry for several minutes before he lifted his head from where it had been resting against Harry’s pectoral muscle, placing the point of his chin there instead and looking up at Harry.

“Did you,” Louis began haltingly, pausing to clear his throat.  “Did you, um, did you mean that before?”  He blinked rapidly, almost nervously.  

“Mean what?” Harry asked.  He had craned his neck so he could get a better look at Louis, and his heart rate spiked with anxiety when he saw the tension in Louis’s features.  He wasn’t sure what Louis was referring to.

Louis went a little pink, and rolled his eyes once.  “Just.  Earlier, when you said…”  He swallowed thickly and then continued quietly, not looking Harry directly in the eye.  “Before.  When you said -- you said you wanted me to fuck you…”  

Harry barked out a laugh, dropping his head back against the floor in relief.  His amusement disappeared immediately, though, heart plummeting into his stomach when he felt Louis freeze above him and make to roll away.  

“What?”  Harry went up onto his elbows and grabbed Louis by the meat of his upper arm, keeping him in place.  “No!” he said.  He winced when he saw that Louis’s mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes gone flinty.  “Hey.  No, I meant -- I mean yes.  Yes, I definitely want that.  God, sorry.”  He gave a single nervous laugh, suddenly self-conscious again, flush crawling up his neck.  “I just -- I thought that was like, obvious by now…  Like, um, maybe _embarrassingly_ obvious, even.  Sorry.”

Louis’s facial muscles relaxed gradually and he sank back down, nestling into Harry’s side.

“Oh.  Okay,” Louis mumbled into Harry’s t-shirt.  “I just thought.  You know, we could do it in a bed, again, then.  At some point.  Maybe.  If that’s what you wanted...”   

Harry nodded vigorously, laughing a little.  Something good and warm bubbled up in his chest, happiness spreading out over his skin.  He swung Louis up and fully on top of him, so Louis was straddling his hips, his hands on Harry’s shoulders.

“You’re all I’ve been thinking about for days, Louis,” Harry explained shyly.  His heart was thudding sluggishly, too full in his ribcage.  He reached up and brushed Louis’s fringe off his forehead, before his hands came to rest at Louis’s waist.  “I thought...” he shrugged.  “I came on so strong.  I was worried I’d scared you off.”

Louis snorted at that, rolling his eyes.  “Uh.  No.”  He chuckled darkly.  “No, you did not.  Sorry, it’s been -- I wasn’t sure if I should…  Because I don’t usually… not with...”  His voice kept trailing off like didn’t know exactly what he was saying.  He stopped and shook his head, looking Harry right in the eyes, and continued more confidently.  “Sorry, no.  You did not scare me off.”

“Could I --” Harry paused, fighting to keep from grinning too wolfishly.  “Could I have your phone number then, Tomlinson?”

Harry beamed when Louis threw his head back and let out a brilliant peal of laughter in response.  “Yeah, all right, Styles, I guess that can be arranged.”

“Good,” Harry said, simply, smiling up at Louis and feeling giddy.  He shifted a hand to the middle of Louis’s back and then guided him down so he could kiss him soundly.  They still had half an hour until rehearsal; it would be a shame to let it go to waste...

*

The children’s workshop was still holding practice in Jerwood Hall when Harry and Louis snuck in twenty-five minutes later, early for rehearsal.  They stood together in the shadows to the right of where the kids were playing and looked quietly on, shoulders almost brushing.

Watching all the chubby little fingers move across taped fingerboards, cute little faces scrunched up in concentration, Harry couldn’t help but picture a miniature Louis, hard at work, playing his own adorable little violin.  He smiled, wondering how old Louis had been when he’d started.  He seemed like the type who had barely been out of diapers.

When he turned his head to whisper his question into Louis’s ear, he saw that Louis wasn’t watching the little musicians anymore.  Not exclusively, anyway.  He was staring at a man in his mid-forties who was sitting in a chair well back from where the kids were playing, near the main entrance to the hall.  The man was apparently highly interested in the workshop’s proceedings.  Keeping time with the music, he would grimace and nod at various intervals, as if passing judgment on the performance.  Louis’s gaze kept flicking back and forth between the man and the children on the small stage, as if he were trying to work something out.  He scoffed after about a minute, rolling his eyes and working his jaw in displeasure.  “As if it makes a difference,” he muttered darkly, switching his violin case to his other hand.

“Hmm?”

“What?” Louis asked distractedly, not taking his eyes off the children anymore.   

“What doesn’t make a difference?” Harry pressed, in a whisper.

Louis looked over at him then, his eyebrows raised as though he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.  He shrugged and sighed, scratching at an eyebrow.  He turned back toward the man in the middle of Jerwood, nodding at him.  “Just, this guy’s parked himself out there, like he thinks he’s far enough back that his kid’s not going to know he’s here.”  Louis laughed humorlessly.  “Like she’s not up there, cataloguing every single one of those winces he’s making.”  He shook his head grimly, sighing again.  “Believe me, no matter where he sits, she’d know he was here.”  He shifted his weight from one foot to another in annoyance.  “Fucking ridiculous,” he murmured, before excusing himself for cursing even though of course he’d only been speaking loudly enough for Harry to hear him.

Harry’s eyes darted from the one-man audience back up to the kids, before they settled on Louis and stayed there.  He played with his bottom lip, thoughts about Louis’s mum at the gallery fundraiser swirling through his brain.  He studied the anxious set of Louis’s brow, and the image he’d formed of a scarcely post-toddler Louis sawing industriously away at his tiny violin with a fat little fist around his bow evolved in his mind, tension creeping into it.  He was reminded suddenly of how little he really knew about Louis Tomlinson, of how much he wanted to know.  Harry had so many half-formed questions he wanted to ask Louis, questions about Louis’s life that he knew he’d probably mumble and stammer through if he was ever in a real position to pose them.

Louis was looking at the kids in the workshop again, almost pointedly ignoring the man out in the seats, and Harry followed his eyeline to a violinist in the front row.  It was Sophie Becker, the little girl Harry had met a few days before.  It only took a few bars to see that she was very talented, maybe the most talented of the bunch.  It was subtle, but Harry could also see that Sophie wasn’t fully relaxed, not quite.  There was a stiffness about her posture that didn’t seem natural to her, a shade too rigid for the quality of her technique.  Even though he wasn’t looking that way anymore, Harry could feel it then.  Could feel the presence of the lone member of the audience, whom he had come to assume was Sophie’s father, as a strange, tingling pressure at the middle of his spine.  As though he were being evaluated himself.

He wanted to ask Louis one of his half-formed questions, right then.  Ask him something about how he had managed to pinpoint Sophie so quickly, how he’d figured it all out so fast, hoping that slivers of information about Louis’s own childhood would be revealed in his answer.  But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Miss Julia cut the young musicians off and instructed them to pack up as quickly as possible so that they wouldn’t delay the real orchestra’s rehearsal.  Then Niall and Gladys were bursting into Jerwood with Zayn in tow, bickering about who had the best part in _Peter and the Wolf,_ and the moment had passed.

“Malik, why are you even bothering to argue?” Louis asked with a snort, drifting toward the three of them as they came further into the hall, Sophie Becker seemingly forgotten.  “I mean, Peter is the absolute best, no question, but the wolf is the only one who comes anywhere near close.”

Harry stayed where he was, his stack of scores heavy under his arm.  He watched the children file out one of the hall’s side doors and then looked back over at Niall and Gladys and Zayn and Louis, still arguing animatedly in the middle of the room.

 _Narrator is best,_ he thought.   _But none of them would ever admit it._

*

Their performance of _Peter and the Wolf_ the following day went wonderfully.  Right from the beginning the children watched with rapt attention, wide-eyed as Harry introduced the cast of characters.

“Each character in this story is represented by a different instrument,” Harry explained, beaming out at them.  “The bird by the flute...”

He felt a glow of happiness seeing the tops of their heads as they buried themselves in their programs, pages ruffling, oohing and ahhing as they sought out the drawing Zayn had done of the bird.  Their heads snapped back up to watch as Pearl Katz played an example trill on the flute.  By the time he’d introduced the wolf as being represented by “three smelly… stinky… _nose-picking_ French horns,” the children were squirming and giggling in delight and Niall was smiling so wide in silent laughter that it almost didn’t look like he’d be able to get it together to put his lips on his instrument to play.

Harry continued to be a proper show-off throughout, hamming it up as the narrator as much as possible for the benefit of the little audience.  He was feeling particularly proud of his performance, about halfway through, when he managed to elicit gasps from several of the kids with the ominous tone he used for the part where the wolf manages to swallow the duck.  Harry blushed then, making eye contact with Louis, pleasantly embarrassed at having been caught so obviously pleased with himself.  Louis’s eyes twinkled at him and Harry tried not to dwell on it.

The musicians milled about in Jerwood Hall afterward, signing programs for the children, showing them their instruments and answering questions.  Harry watched Louis lead three or four of the kids across the room to where he’d stowed his violin case, like little ducklings following after their mother, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek when it occurred to him he’d been thinking of Louis as Peter the whole time.  The way he carried himself, his general attitude, even the cut of his hair -- it all matched up just right in Harry’s mind.  It was so fitting, Louis leading the strings in representing Peter during the performance, and the realization made Harry’s sternum ache.

It ached even more when Harry remembered that Louis had brought up a similar idea earlier that day, before the concert.  Part of the orchestra had been standing around in a circle, examining Zayn’s finished programs and discussing the casual brilliance of the artwork.

“Do you ever do that?” Louis had asked, nudging Niall and laughing.  “Like, cast people from your life in the parts for something in your head?  I mean, like this drawing Zayn did; I can’t stop picturing Gerry Courtenay as the grandfather now!”  He looked around, apparently to make sure Gerald wasn’t within ear shot.  “Even though I didn’t used to think Peter’s grandfather was quite as much of a fuddy-duddy as Gerry, now I’m starting to think he is!  It’s skewing my whole perception!”

Even though he knew Louis’s ribbing was mostly good-natured, Harry had felt like he needed to step in and defend Gerald Courtenay’s honor for some reason.  Gerald maybe looked like a version of the grandpa from a Werther’s advert who wasn’t particularly inclined to share his caramels with anyone, but Harry liked him anyway -- maybe because of it, really.  He’d had a rather remarkable life.  Born to a British nobleman, Gerald had grown up in America with his American mother, and had actually played the bugle for the U.S. Army Band during the Vietnam War.  He’d survived with a biting sense of humor and all his fingers intact, moving to England afterward and returning to his true passion, the viola.  Peter would be lucky to have such a grandfather!  And Harry had said as much out loud, pleasure blooming in his chest from the rather fond way Louis had snorted and rolled his eyes afterward.  “Okay, defender,” he’d said, as if it was some kind of strange position he’d assigned Harry in life.  Harry Styles, conductor, cellist, defender.  Harry had awkwardly cleared his throat and then quickly pointed out how amazing the wolf’s claws looked on the keys of the French horn that Zayn had drawn, commanding himself not to think about any other life positions he might be hoping Louis would eventually assign him to.

He pushed the thought away again now, meandering through the crowd of people, stopping to sign programs and let a few of the kids test out his baton.  Most of the children had filed out of hall by the time Harry had made his way to the far left of the big room.  He was casting about, looking to see which of the musicians were still there, when he heard Louis speaking behind him.  The normally bright rasp of Louis’s voice had been dialled back just a touch, as though Louis were subconsciously trying to keep his conversation private for some reason.  Harry felt a little like he was intruding (knew he probably was), but he couldn’t help listening in anyway, couldn’t stop himself from turning to observe.

“Okay, show me your bow hold,” Louis said, smiling down at Sophie Becker.  She was staring up at Louis in awe, his extra bow in her hand, clearly unable to fully believe that not only was she talking to Louis Tomlinson, concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, but he was also letting her incredibly close to his magnificent, priceless violin.  “Just as I suspected,” Louis said, adjusting the positioning of her fingers ever so slightly on the mother-of-pearl detailing at the bow’s base.  “You have the wrist of a natural violinist.”

Sophie giggled and blushed, biting her lip over a smile.  Harry did the same, looking down at his feet, endeared by both of them.

“Do you love to play?” Louis asked, taking the bow back from her.  

Sophie nodded, beaming up at Louis.

“Good,” Louis said.  “That’s very important.”  He bent down, returning the bow to its proper spot in his violin case and removing something that looked like a balled-up blue handkerchief.  “This is my favorite rosin,” he whispered, pulling back the silk and showing it to Sophie.  “I’ve had it for ages; it’s most likely older than you.”

“It’s nine years old?” she asked, skeptical and little sassy, like she thought he was probably just teasing her.  

“Older, even!” Louis said.  “It’s on its last legs, see.”  Harry could see from where he stood, about ten feet away, that the rosin was incredibly worn down in the center from years and years of bow strokes, about ready to crack in two.  “Someone who believed in me gave it to me when I was younger, so I’ve kept it for a very long time,” Louis confided.  He cleared his throat, going on.  “I saw you playing in the workshop yesterday, and I could tell that you are already becoming an excellent musician, Sophie.  I think you have remarkable potential as a violinist.”

Sophie went bright red, squirming in front of Louis with her arms behind her back as he let his words sink in.  “Thank you,” she squeaked.

Harry had to swallow over the lump of emotion that was forming in his throat, still staring down at his own pigeon-toed feet.  

“I want you to have this,” Louis told her.  He extended his arm, holding the silk-swathed rosin out to her.

Sophie’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.  She reached for it tentatively, with big eyes and trembling fingers, taking it very carefully and handling it like it was a precious artifact.

“This way,” Louis said softly, “in the future, when you maybe get discouraged during lessons or the piece you’re working on seems too hard, you’ll have it like I did, and you can use it as a reminder that someone else out there believes in you, okay?  Because I definitely think you should be playing violin.”

“Oh,” Sophie whispered in hushed awe, still staring at the rosin in her hand like it might be a figment of her imagination.  “Okay.  Th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis said.

“Sophie!”  A little boy from the workshop was standing in the front entrance of Jerwood Hall.  “Soph!  Hurry up!  Miss Julia’s waiting!”

“‘Kay, I’m coming,” Sophie shouted in a mumble, biting her lip.  She looked up at Louis.  “Thank you, Mr. Tomlinson,” she said again before turning to go, Louis’s present clutch tightly in her little fist.  She hurried across the hall, running every couple of steps.

“Hey, Sophie!” Louis called out, when she was almost to the door.  She stopped in her tracks, turning back to look at him.  “Sky’s the limit,” he said.

Sophie broke out in a tremendous grin, nodding, before she turned on her heel and quickly scurried the rest of the way out of the room.  

Harry hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the door clicked shut behind her and everything was quiet.  His heart was beating rapidly in his chest.  He wondered if Louis knew he was standing there.

“I can feel you standing there,” Louis croaked, a hint of accusatory amusement in his voice.  He didn’t turn to look at Harry all the way, bending down to close up his violin case carefully.

Harry sighed.  “Sorry. I just -- ” Harry’s voice was thick with feeling, his nerves jangly.  He wanted to reach out to Louis, pull him into his arms and hug him, squeeze him tight for being wonderful.  “Louis.  That was...”

Louis turned toward him now, cutting him off.  He shook his head, his cheeks pink.  “It was nothing, Styles.”

The ache in Harry’s sternum felt almost brutal now.  “Wasn’t nothing,” he whispered.  He couldn’t help but put a gentle hand on Louis’s upper arm as he said it.

“Okay,” Louis said.  He snorted out an embarrassed laugh and rolled his eyes, shrugging Harry’s hand off and shifting uncomfortably in front of him.  “Enough of that.”

They stood together awkwardly for a moment before Niall hollered across Jerwood at them.  “Hey!  Dawdlers!  Hello, you ready?  Red Cow!  Gladdo and Zayn and Gerry are probably there already.”

“All right!” Louis called back.  He looked at Harry, who didn’t have his spring coat and still had a score tucked under his arm.  “Meet you over there?”

Harry nodded wordlessly, watching Louis hurry to catch up with Niall.  “It wasn’t nothing,” he whispered again.

 

Coming back to Harry’s flat that night was a little different than the time before.  They didn’t attack each other the second the door shut behind them, for one thing.  They’d taken a taxi together again, this time from the Red Cow, but there had been no mad, frantic dash up the the stairs with frequent stops for snogging against banisters.  Instead, they slipped quietly inside.  Harry flicked on the light and plunked his keys into a dish by the door as they toed off their shoes.  He wordlessly took Louis’s coat from him and hung it up next his own on a peg on the wall.

This time everything was slow and quiet, but Louis’s heart was pounding just the same.

Harry moved further into the loft, gliding softly on the hardwood floors in his stocking feet, looking like a gangly teenager, and Louis trailed behind him.  He ran an appraising hand along the back of Harry’s couch, taking in some of the artwork he had on display, the coffee table books, the knickknacks.

“Do you,” Harry coughed into his fist, now in the kitchen.  “Do you want anything to drink?”

Louis turned away from the small, framed print he’d been studying on the opposite wall and met Harry’s gaze.  He blinked, then shook his head without a word.  They stared at each other for a long moment and Louis bit his lip when he saw the rise and fall of Harry’s chest become increasingly pronounced, noticeable even from across the room.  Louis felt heady and breathless as he walked over to him.

He reached for Harry’s wrist once he was standing in front of him, encircling it with his fingers just under the cuff of Harry’s sleeve and rubbing gently at the soft skin.  Harry shivered at the touch, sucking in a breath just as Louis did the same.  Because this was what he had been waiting for, what had been lighting his mind on fire for the past day and a half.  Harry’s responsiveness.   _God._  The way Harry had reacted to him in his office, trembling under Louis’s hands and letting him take control.  It made Louis want so much, feel _so_ much, like he was on the verge of drowning in some sort of irresistible and primal force.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Louis asked softly.  Everything felt electric to him right then, the surface of his skin, the zip of his heart in his chest and the air surrounding them.   

“Yeah,” Harry breathed out.  “Yes.”  His eyelids fluttered as he grabbed Louis’s hand, twisting their fingers together in subtle desperation.

The sex was different than last time, too.  Harry let Louis lead him up the spiral staircase to the bed.  He let Louis peel off his clothes, piece by piece, and then let him run his hands over the planes of his endless body, let him mouth at his smooth skin.  He let Louis open him up slowly and fuck him so long and deep that they were both moaning silently, almost sobbing into each other’s mouths when they finally came.  And this time, after they’d cleaned up a bit and Harry had padded downstairs to get them both a glass of water, Harry crawled back into bed and pulled Louis against him in the dark, spooning around him and sighing against Louis’s shoulder before he fell into a snuffling sleep.

It made Louis’s chest ache, all of it.  He lay in Harry’s arms, uneasy, his thoughts going a thousand miles a minute.

 _It’s just sex,_ he told himself.   _It’s just sex._   

But then Louis’s mind raced back to earlier that day, to Harry at the concert with the kids, and his heart clenched sharply.

Just after the performance had ended, Louis had been looking on as Harry deposited an adorable little boy on the conductor’s podium with his baton in hand and then sat himself in the cello section, playing an imaginary instrument as the boy directed him.  He would occasionally ignore the boy’s tempo commands in an exaggerated fashion, much too fast or much too slow, making the child stomp his foot, giggling madly in happy frustration.

Louis had been about to walk away, knowing that he was staring creepily at Harry when he should have been venturing out into the audience and interacting with the kids from the workshop himself.  But then Niall had come up to his side, laughing in delight.

“Harry’s so fuckin’ good with kids,” he said, beaming and shaking his head.  He elbowed Louis, snorting and leaning in like he was going to tell him a secret.  “You should see ‘im.  Sometimes he even goes all Mrs. Doubtfire on them.”  Then Niall threw his voice an octave, nailing the combined impression.   _“‘Helloooo,_ children!’”  He did it complete with a fluttery wave that was so spot on Harry that Niall’s hand actually seemed bigger as it moved through the air. 

Bright, endeared laughter had burst out of Louis at the accuracy of Niall’s impersonation.

“See,” Niall had said smugly, elbowing Louis one more time.  “Told’ja he wasn’t all bad.”

Louis glared at him (which had only exacerbated Niall’s delight) and sped away immediately, looking for children of his own to entertain and educate. 

His lips twisted into a begrudging smile at the thought of it, watching as the beams from the headlights of a passing car tracked through the windows of Harry’s flat, illuminating everything briefly as they did.   _Go to sleep,_ he told himself.   _Go the fuck to sleep._  The last thing he wanted to do was start dwelling on the soft look he’d seen in Harry’s eyes after Sophie Becker had left Jerwood Hall.  He didn’t want to think about that at all.  Couldn’t think about that.  

 _Just sex.  Still.  Probably,_ he assured himself again, weakly, pulling Harry’s duvet up to his neck.   _You’ve got this under control.  It won’t get out of hand._

He forced down the scared, sinking feeling that it was out of hand already.  The knowledge that it was, really.  Now that they’d started this, Louis wasn’t sure he’d ever want to stop.  Even if it meant lying to himself about it in the dark.    

 _Just sex,_ he thought.  He sighed and tangled his legs together with Harry’s, so tired that he finally managed to drift off to sleep despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfM7Y9Pcdzw) a very cute performance of Peter and the Wolf by the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. I'm dying right now, still, thinking about Harry as conductor/narrator.
> 
> Okay. I can't believe I'm linking to this, but [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCNo5_fq_tI) is Perpetual Motion. For a large portion of my childhood, my mother only let us listen to a tape of Suzuki Volume 1 while we were in the car. Over and over. That's probably an exaggeration. But like I can't listen to this song all the way right now. I could barely look it up on Youtube. Enjoy? ( - 100percentsassy)
> 
> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading/commenting/reccing this! We love you. And we are super greedy for the feedback.


	7. Chapter 7

April.  A week after the children’s concert, Louis arrived at the Barbican to find a new score stuffed into his mailbox -- an addition to Beethoven’s _Eroica Symphony_ and the Overture to _Tannhäuser,_ which were already on the program for their next performance cycle.  He pulled the sheaf of music out and glanced at the title.   _Violin Concerto in A minor, Op. 53_ by Antonín Dvořák.  For solo violin and symphony orchestra.  A sticky note fluttered to the floor, and Louis stooped to pick it up.

_This piece just reminds me of you. -- H._

Louis frowned.  He was only vaguely familiar with the concerto, hadn’t played it before.  He thought he remembered that Dvořák had written it for Joseph Joachim, an incredibly famous and well-respected 19th century violinist whom Dvořák had apparently greatly admired.  But Joachim had rejected it, and Dvořák had never composed another.

 _Which is why it’s not called “Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor,”_ Louis thought.   _There’s no number two._

He felt a small pang in his heart, thinking that Harry might associate that story with him.  Then he tucked the music under his arm and began to poke around for an empty office in which to practice for the hour or so before his sectional.  There was nothing available, all grumpy-looking board members with their heads down or locked, darkened rooms.  Louis was just about to nip over to the concert hall to set up a stand for himself on the main stage (slightly ridiculous) when Liam Payne stuck his head out of a doorway and called to him.

“Looking for a spot to play?”

Louis nodded.  Liam smiled and cocked his head, inviting Louis into his office.  “Come on, then, entertain me while I pretend to sort out these dinner reservations for Grimshaw with the BBC.”

“Ooh, are we going to be on telly again?” Louis asked, genuinely excited.  The LSO had been featured once before during Louis’s tenure as concertmaster, on a Sunday afternoon for the grey-haired pensioner crowd.  It had done decently in the ratings.  Louis had quite enjoyed imagining a tiny version of himself on some old lady’s half-broken kitchen telly, entertaining her while she did the washing up.

“Not positive yet,” Liam answered, looking a bit sheepish that he’d let the cat out of the bag.  “Not actually supposed to mention it to anyone.  But confidentially, they seem quite keen on setting something up for Harry’s final concert cycle.  They think he can bring in a younger viewing audience.”

Louis nodded thoughtfully as he arranged his music on one of the spare, wobbly stands that always seemed to pop up in odd corners and cluster together at the tops of stairways.  “Makes sense.  And thanks, Payne, for letting me practice in here.”

Liam’s ears pinked.  Louis thought he heard him mutter something along the lines of “got my name right this time, anyway…”

Louis smiled and rolled his eyes as he tightened up his bow and began to tune his violin.   _Look at me.  Getting to be a big softie, I am._  He tried to focus on the first movement of the Dvořák, running his fingers slowly through the notes of the opening phrase before putting his bow to the strings.   _Maybe because I’ve just spent the entire weekend in Harry Styles’s big, soft bed.  Not practicing like I should have been._  Louis cringed guiltily.  He let his mind drift back to Harry’s naked torso, half covered by a pristine white sheet, his own hand running over the flushed skin.  Buttery croissants the next morning, only slightly burnt because Louis had distracted Harry with a blow job up against his kitchen counter, crumbs and laughter.  Play-wrestling in bed over something stupid, Louis couldn’t even remember… kissing.  So much kissing.

Louis shook his head, trying to clear out the morning cobwebs.  Practicing.  So much practicing; that’s what he needed.

Finally he let his fingers fly, giving voice to the traditional Czech melodies Dvořák had woven into the concerto.  There was some sort of longing in the first movement, Louis thought.  A bittersweet wait, filled with want.  He discovered the music as he played through it, and found it oddly familiar for a piece he’d never given much thought to in the past.  Almost like a musical echo of feelings he’d had before.

“Where have you been hiding, _Violin Concerto in A minor?”_ he whispered as he let his bow carve out a series of virtuosic runs and double stops on his way to the second movement.   _One thing about Harry Styles,_ he thought, blinking in surprise at the gorgeous phrases that were forming beneath his fingers, _one of the many things...  He certainly knows how to put together a concert program._

Harry Styles.  As soon as he’d silently said the name, there was a knock on the door.

“I thought I heard the distinctive sound of a Tommo in here,” Harry said, poking his curly head into the office.  “Hey, Liam.”

“The Barbican’s had real trouble this season with Tommo infestations,” Liam deadpanned back.

Louis huffed and flicked the page over, intending to ignore them and start working on the second movement.  He’d only been practicing for fifteen minutes; he didn’t relish an interruption.  But he felt Harry’s eyes boring into his back, right between his shoulderblades, and he couldn’t stop himself from turning to face him.

“If you two jokers are through with your comedy act,” he said archly, “I’d like to get back to the music.”  He flicked his fringe and leveled a challenging glare at Harry.

Harry answered with a pout that really should not have been endearing, but made Louis’s heart flip over all the same.  “Thought maybe you’d want to get a coffee with me.”

“I have had my morning coffee,” Louis frowned, resisting Harry’s unreasonably adorable attempt at a sad face, “and now I am practicing.  Which is what I should be doing, seeing as _someone’s_ just sprung a solo concerto on me.”

Harry grinned.  “You like it?”

“It’s…”   _Perfect.  Amazing.  Feels like it was written for me, and you knew and I..._  Louis sighed.  “Let’s go get a coffee, Styles.”

He packed up his violin and gathered his sheet music into an untidy pile, giving Liam a wink on the way out the door.  And if Harry noticed that Louis waited until they were outside the Barbican and on the next block to slip his hand around Harry’s waist, under the grungy material of one of his hipster flannels, he didn’t say anything.

 

_you look so fucking sexy right now_

**where /are/ you?**

_haha hiding._

_…_

_do you think anyone would notice if we had sex up against those big windows_

**i think paul the security guard might notice, yes**

_oh.  so, up for it?_

**stop spying on me like a pervert and just get in here already**

Harry locked his phone, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to set it down on his desk.  Instead he just stared at the blank screen for a minute, mind floating pleasantly to Louis, the shape of his face, the feel of his stubble when they’d kissed earlier that morning in the cab on the way to work.  Snogged like frenzied teenagers, really, until Harry had stumbled out of the taxi and into the Barbican Centre rumpled, with red beard burn all around his mouth for his early meeting with Grimshaw.  He remembered Louis’s laughing eyes as he’d closed the cab door behind him for the short ride up to St. Luke’s.   _God,_ Harry thought, _there’s nothing in the entire world that’s better than a happy Louis Tomlinson._  He smiled softly as he daydreamed about it, having forgotten what he was doing with the score that was currently spread out beneath his elbows.

_i can still see you_

Harry felt his cheeks flush, shoulders automatically trying to fold in and hide as he looked through the glass windows of his Barbican office over the second floor mezzanine.  Louis was out there somewhere.  Harry frowned and stuck his tongue out, accidentally startling Janet Ingersoll, who gave a little confused jump as she walked across the lobby toward the entrance to the administrative section.

“Oh, no!  I didn’t --”  Harry waved at her, but she’d already slipped through the door.  “Shit.”

_HAHAHAHA_

Harry nearly jammed a finger typing back, face hot and arousal twisting in his stomach.

**you are the worst; where are you?  can you come kiss me please?**

Two minutes later there was a knock on his door.  Harry sprang up to open it, so eager that his chair rolled back and hit his desk with a loud _thunk_.  He found Louis on the other side still giggling silently.  The edges of his blue eyes were crinkled with mirth, face sharp and bright and Harry just wanted to touch it, wanted to run his thumb over Louis’s cheek, tracing his bones.

“Kiss me,” he said.

Louis put his hands on Harry’s chest, pushing him into the office as he kicked the door closed with his heel.  Harry didn’t miss his hesitant glance out the windows, or the way he shoved them both behind the coat rack before he wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and pulled himself up to press their lips together.  Louis had just come from St. Luke’s, Harry could tell; he tasted like a mixture of rosin and valve oil and blackboard chalk, the slightly homely smell common to all practice rooms.  Harry loved it.  Loved the muffled noises they made together, loved Louis’s tongue exploring his mouth, loved running his hands through his soft hair.  God, he could do this _all day._  Which...

“Wait, didn’t you say you were busy today until five?” Harry asked, breaking their kiss to finger at Louis’s collar, reveling in the feel of the smaller violinist gathered up in his arms.

Louis nodded, smiling at him softly.  “But it’s so much fun to tease you.”

Harry stiffened involuntarily at the words.  He could feel uneasiness rising in his stomach, mixed with the same spike of automatic arousal that always seemed to hit whenever Louis reminded him, however inadvertently, of their teenage selves.  Harry didn’t think he liked it anymore.  At the beginning it had been hot, _God,_ it had been so hot.  Harry’s blood would pound through his body just _thinking_ about Louis’s taunting voice, thinking about how he could silence it now, because he had him.  He had him now; he could put his hands on him, slide them up his shirt and…  Those were the thoughts that would fill up Harry’s cock so fast he’d almost get a headrush.  But lately it was all beginning to feel a bit sick, somehow -- unhealthy, like a dead end.  And really, pretty unfair to Louis.

Harry was still hurt, was the thing.  There was still a small, niggling part of him that was scared of being unloveable and picked on and utterly disliked; it was a reflex that kicked weakly whenever he was around Louis.  His mind wanted to feed on that insecurity, wanted to bring back all of those horrible feelings until Harry fucked them down again.  The panic hit his throat.  Harry licked his lips, dropping his hands to Louis’s shoulders to gently push him away.  Louis frowned, yielding.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, just…”  Harry bit his lip.  He knew his cheeks were flushed; he could feel his body reacting to it, the new tightness in his jeans.  Through the fog of his complicated, volatile mix of emotions, he ached for Louis.  He wanted him so much, always.  And now he could see a trace of hurt flash through Louis’s eyes, a flicker of shame and self-doubt.

“I’m sorry,” Louis said, suddenly.  His face was thoughtful.  Quiet.  “We shouldn’t…  we should stop snogging in your office, probably.”

Harry nodded, willing himself to calm down.  “Unprofessional,” he whispered.

“Right.”

Harry looked at the ground, bunching his slightly swollen bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, toeing the carpet.  He could feel Louis staring at him, which made the back of his neck feel like it was radiating heat and did nothing help matters in his pants.

“I really --” he started to say, right as Louis blurted out something else in a loud, embarrassed rush.  Harry laughed, lifting his head up to meet Louis’s eyes again.  “Sorry, what?”

“No,” Louis said, sheepishly.  “You first.”

“Uh-uh,” Harry shook his head, grin spreading across his face as he watched Louis squirm.  “I’m pretty sure I’m interested in hearing your thing.”

Louis rolled his eyes, pink tinge appearing on the apples of his cheeks.  “I asked if you might want to take me out to dinner somewhere and then back to your place so you can, you know, ravish me.”

Harry couldn’t contain the fresh giggles that were bubbling up in his chest.  “But it’s only four.  I still have work to do.”

“Well!” Louis flung out his arms.  “Late business lunch, then.  We can discuss my concerto.”

“That does sound, technically, like business.”

“Because we’re professionals!” said Louis brightly.

“Exactly.”  Harry turned to gather up the _Eroica_ score, stuff it into his messenger bag so he could work on it later at home.  (After he’d opened Louis up, slowly and deliberately with his tongue and his gentle, crooked fingers.)  There was something else moving through his body, suddenly, some other feeling.  Warm and free, and… happy.

Harry pressed a kiss into the side of Louis’s neck before he opened the door.

 

God, the Dvořák was going well.  Louis smiled as he started the third movement, aware that Harry was watching him from the bed.  His dark eyes were flicking over Louis’s chest, the flexing muscles in his arms, drinking in his body.  Gazing unabashedly at his slightly erect cock.  Louis had never done a nude practice session before, but Harry had demanded to hear him play the concerto all the way through, now that he’d memorized it.  A private concert.

“And no getting dressed.”

Louis’s smile turned into a wide grin.  The opening theme of the third movement was just so _joyful,_ so completely wonderful.  It had come so easily to him, the interpretation.  Now that he was playing it for Harry -- really playing it _for_ him, watching the shifting expressions on his face and shaping phrases in response, feeling his skin flush from the attention as Harry stared at him, entranced -- it sounded even better.  Like his heart was singing.

As Louis launched into the _furiant_ for the final time about halfway through the movement, pitched one octave down, he felt his limbs relax.  He just let go, let his head fly away.  Let the feeling in his body carry the music rather than the analytical part of his brain that was usually in control.  He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, not sure how he had arrived at this new state but wanting to hold onto it.  Which is when he felt Harry’s lips around the tip of his cock.

Louis gasped, fingers tensing on his bow and making his strings growl in a way that didn’t actually sound terrible, considering the folk music origins of the melody.  He shivered, losing the tempo for a second.

“Keep playing,” Harry whispered.  Then he licked Louis’s slit, swirling his tongue in circles around his sensitive head as he used one hand to gently tug the foreskin back.

Louis did as he was told.  His thighs shivered, Harry’s hot breath raising goose flesh across them as he exhaled.  He played the next section of the movement, contrasting moods, the hint of a lyrical waltz before a number of intricate runs that lead to the piece’s triumphant finale.  Harry sucked him down; Louis could almost feel the vibrations of the strings in his dick as he flew through his fingerings, barely in control.  He moaned when Harry skimmed his teeth lightly along the sides of his shaft.  He’d _just_ come; they’d just finished having lazy afternoon sex a few minutes before Harry had goaded him into playing, and now his cock was a little oversensitive.  It was straining, so hard it was almost painful and Louis just needed more friction, more, he _needed..._

“Fuck, H,” he murmured, lungs burning because he couldn’t get enough breath in them.  His chest was expanding like a balloon, and he risked a glance down at Harry.   _God._  He looked obscene, plush lips a darker shade of red than normal where they were wrapped around Louis, brows knit in concentration as he opened his throat.  Hair mussed, small, perfect curls damp with sweat on his rosy neck.  It was like Louis was watching the best porn _ever,_ it was like…  Well, it wasn’t just porn, though.  That was the thing.  This was Harry, doing this for him.  Harry with the shining eyes and the sweet laugh.  Harry whose speaking voice was so low and monotonous, who told such nothing stories with such charm.  Harry who had a dimple, who dressed oddly and who had befriended Gerald Courtenay without a second thought.  Harry the genius.

Louis felt a sour panic zip through him, even as heat started to curl in his balls, the head of his cock tingling as Harry started jerking him roughly, bringing him to the edge.   _Why does he like me?  What have I ever done for him except…  He deserves better…  oh…_

“Haz, I’m --”

Louis came with a gasp as he played the final phrases of the piece, a jaunty Czech dance that rang up to the ceiling of Harry’s loft.  Everything was warm, wet release for the final three notes.  He dropped his bow onto the soft bed and buried his right hand in Harry’s hair, still rocking with the aftershocks of his orgasm.  He petted the cherubic curls as he came down, arranging them on Harry’s forehead with a hazy smile as their eyes locked.  When he was almost soft, Harry pulled off with a final, enthusiastic swirl of his tongue.

“You’re so incredible,” he whispered, staring up at Louis.

Louis’s heart clenched in his chest, shuddering and stammering along at twice its normal speed.   _I’m not; I’m... not like you._

“Think we should do it that way on Friday?” he asked, making his voice light on purpose.  He cupped Harry’s face in his hand as his mouth dropped open for one of those lovely, startled laughs, and thumbed a stray drop of come off his chin.  Pressed it between his slick lips until Harry was sucking on it.

“Not sure it would be practical,” Harry mumbled, popping off with a smack.

“But Eleanor would get a really nice view of your arse and balls,” Louis said, “So.”

Harry laughed and let Louis put his violin down safely in its case before tackling him and pinning him to the bed.  He began to kiss up his torso, Louis wriggling under him impatiently.  “Seriously though,” Louis sighed, tugging one wrist free to press self-consciously at the base of his neck.  He sat up halfway, struggling under Harry’s weight as he gazed into a full length mirror that was propped up against the exposed brick wall, “I’m going to have to figure out how to cover up some of these marks before the performance.  Are you actually a vampire, Styles?  Can you really not control yourself?”

“One,” Harry said, pushing him back down and kissing a bruise on Louis’s hip.  “Two.”  A lovebite on his stomach.  “Three, four, five…  Mmm, love marking you.  Want everyone to see.”  Louis felt a skittering rush of electricity over his skin at that, at the thought that Harry wanted to claim him.  “Six… _Mine…_  Seven…”

“Actually, that one’s from Thunder.”

Harry frowned, lifting his head from where it had been pressing a gentle kiss into the side of Louis’s neck.  He tried to gasp theatrically in faux-surprise; it sounded funny and slow, as deep as his voice.  “You’ve been getting off with your violin?”  He thought for another beat before his eyes widened.  “You named your violin _Thunder?”_

Louis rolled his eyes, mentally berating himself for letting that detail slip.  “So what if I did?  He’s a good violin.”

“You know,” Harry said, moving up in bed to brush Louis’s fringe out of his eyes, carding his hands through his hair, “most instruments are female.  Like ships, or cities.”

Louis squirmed, brow knitting as he tried to ignore how good it felt, those extra little touches.  “Most instruments can fuck off.”

Harry giggled once, biting his lip.  “My cello’s named Letitia.”

“Oh, God, get away from me, Styles.”

“No.”  Harry captured both of Louis’s wrists in one of his big hands and started to push his fully hard dick, still lube-slick, into Louis’s thigh.  Started to rut against him with little gasps, jerking his hips.  Louis felt a shiver roll through his body, all the way out to the soles of his feet.  He wasn’t sure he could come again -- three times in two hours was asking a lot, even when Harry was involved -- but his cock gave a weak twitch of interest anyway.

“Gonna rub one off on me, Styles?” he asked quietly.

Harry nodded, look of fierce commitment on his face as he stared into Louis’s eyes.  Louis’s breath caught.  He was so beautiful, Harry was… so…

“Okay, baby, come on.  Touch yourself for me.”

Harry reached down and wrapped one of his hands around his own cock, still pinioning both of Louis’s wrists to his chest with the other.   _This isn’t just sex,_ Louis thought, eyes locked, watching Harry’s pupils dilate as he brought himself closer. _It’s not.  It’s…_

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, in a warning tone.  “You’re going to get me all messy.”

That made Harry whine.  Louis smiled gently as Harry started to thrust his hips with more purpose, rubbing the wet tip of his penis against the soft skin just under Louis’s pubic bone and wanking furiously.  It made Louis feel good, lazy and warm and like there was nothing in the world that was more important than Harry’s quivering lower lip, the way he croaked out, “Louis, more -- _please…_ I… God, your voice…”

Louis hummed happily.  “You know, the first time I saw you in my -- in that office in St. Luke’s, I wanted you.  I hated you too, a little; I-I thought you were overrated, to be honest, but I still really fucking wanted you.  And then I looked up those Esquire Magazine pictures, and they made me _so hard,_ Harry.  You made me so hard.  And I didn’t do anything about it because it felt wrong, and I was remembering…  I just lay there in bed hard as a rock.”

Harry groaned, eyelids fluttering as he worked his cock, his strokes becoming more erratic.

“It was torture after that.  Kept having to see you.  Couldn’t even so much as palm myself through my clothes, and I had to stare at the outline of your big fuck-off dick every day in rehearsal.  By the time you had me up against the door after _Don Juan,_ I wanted your come all over me.  And inside me.”  Louis marveled, just feeling Harry breathe, skin of his chest hot against his hands.

“Now?” Harry asked.  “Can I?”

“Yeah, come on, darling.”

Harry gasped as he striped Louis’s belly and thighs with his come, rocking forward rhythmically even after he was done, shuddering, his cock still throbbing with dry twitches.  He released Louis’s wrists and Louis gathered him in, his shivering body, pressed his nose into his curls and breathed in his scent.  Lilac, citrus...

*

Later, fully clothed, Louis was picking over the remains of the fajitas Harry had made them for dinner.  The late evening sun was hidden by heavy clouds, muting the colors of the sunset through Harry’s big windows.  Dull ochre and plum cast shadows over the loft; it was that time of night when someone should just turn on a light, but nobody wants to move.

“Are you picking congealed cheese off that plate?”

“Shut up,” mumbled Louis, finger in his mouth as he bumped up against Harry’s shoulder at the counter.  “It tastes good.”

Harry leaned over him from behind, encompassing him, and licked his face.  “Well _you_ taste terrible.”  His voice was deep, and so fond.

Louis tried to elbow him in the dim light, laughing as Harry dodged.  “Ugh,” Harry grinned, leaning in to lick the other side.  “Awful.”

“Seemed like you enjoyed my taste just fine, earlier…” Louis replied with the arch of an eyebrow.

Harry shook his head, wrestling Louis’s hands away as he spun around, stepping forward to pin him against the counter.  “‘S too late now, you’ve turned.”

“Really, Styles, shut up.”  Louis pulled him in for a kiss, feeling the skin on his cheeks start to tickle in the cool air where Harry had licked them.  They snogged for a few minutes, enjoying the warm comfort of each other’s mouths and hands as the evening closed in around them.  Harry ducked down to nuzzle at Louis’s neck.

“I can’t even begin to describe how well you play that concerto,” Harry murmured, voice as smooth and slow as syrup as he mouthed up Louis’s stubbled jaw.  “It makes me…  God, you’re so amazing; you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Oh, I have _some,”_ Louis replied, teasingly.  He ran a finger over the strip of exposed skin between Harry’s t-shirt and the waistline of his jeans, and felt Harry shiver.  “See?”

Harry pulled back, rolling his eyes, soft expression on his face as he gazed down at Louis.  “This is a little embarrassing,” he said.  “But I sort of came to London for you.  I don’t mean --”  His eyes widened.  “Your playing!  I came here for your playing.  I mean, I’m _really_ happy that this happened,” he reached around to squeeze Louis’s arse for emphasis, “but I think you should know that I’ve followed your career and always loved the way you play, and I chose…  I wanted to conduct you.”

There was a pause while Harry blushed, opened his mouth to add something else, closed it again, and shrugged.

“That was beautiful,” Louis said.  He patted Harry’s cheek before slipping out of his embrace, turning to help gather the rest of the dirty dinner plates.  “What other orchestras were you considering?  You must have had a lot of offers.”

“A few,” Harry nodded.  Louis didn’t notice the slight disappointment on Harry’s face, a small hardening of his features, as though he’d been hoping for Louis to respond to his confession in a different way.  “The only other one I seriously thought about was the Berlin Philharmonic.  They’ve got Florian Weil.”

Louis huffed a short laugh.  “Florian Weil, huh?”  He couldn’t help the dull stab of jealousy in his chest, thinking about Harry studying other violinists.  Especially handsome German ones with long, dark hair who looked like Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans.  He cringed as he imagined Harry going over video of Weil online, watching his broad shoulders and graceful hands as he played his celebrated version of the _Méditation_ from _Thaïs._   _Not that…_ Louis knew that he wasn’t going to live up to Harry’s expectations of him, not in the end, not after Harry got used the sex and started to see the flaws in his playing.   _But Florian Weil’s not that great.  Why Florian Weil?  Also,_

“Who names their kid Florian, anyway?” Louis snorted, stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, pretending to be nonchalant as heavy feelings slowly built up in his body.  “Flo.  How’s it going, _Flo_.  Good ol’ _Flo_.”  He shuddered and made an exaggerated expression of distaste.

“It’s a really common name in Germany,” Harry said.  “And actually, his nickname is Flo.  We’re pretty good friends; we hung out a lot when I was in Berlin for a while.  He taught me some German.”

Louis dropped the fajita pan in the soapy sink with a plop and groaned, “Okay, Styles, I know how worldly and cool you are compared to me, no need to rub it in.”

“What?”  Harry looked up from where he’d been wiping down the counter, confusion knitting his brow.  “I’m not…”

“He’s all hype anyway,” Louis went on, hearing his voice get a little high, a little strident, but suddenly powerless to control his biting tone.  “Super overrated.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, shoulders tense as he gazed steadily at the damp marble countertop.  “Everyone’s overrated except you, right Louis?”

He dropped the rag and walked away shaking his head, Louis staring after him.  “I didn’t…” he tried, rubbing his soapy hands down the front of his trousers, whole body suddenly tight with fear.  “You know I don’t think…”  Harry just waved him off, climbing up the spiral stairs to his bed.  Louis heard him flop down on the soft mattress.

 _Fuck._  Louis bit the inside of his lip, staring up at the dark loft.  Wishing Harry would flip on a lamp or something so Louis could at least see him up there.  He didn’t know what to do.  He hadn’t made Harry angry before, not while they were doing _this,_ in each other’s space all the time, and he had no clue how he was supposed to fix it.   _Harry can’t possibly think I still feel that way about him…  That he’s all hype.  He’s not an insecure idiot like me._  Louis felt abruptly, inexplicably frustrated at the idea that Harry might be unsure of himself.  And there was a peevish annoyance fluttering around his chest, demanding to know why in the world Harry would be stupid enough to take Louis’s opinion of him into account, anyway, when it was obviously worth nothing.  He’d been terrible at reading Harry.  This whole time he’d been wrong about everything, and he still couldn’t…  Still couldn’t get a handle on it.  Not at all.  So he finished cleaning up, taking extra time that he’d never have spent in his own kitchen trying to make everything spotless.  He debated leaving.  Was Harry wondering what he was still doing in his flat?  Maybe he should just…  Or should he try to explain?

Louis slumped, one hand on the doorknob, jacket sleeve shrugged halfway up his left arm.  He didn’t want to leave.  Not when Harry’s touch was still aching in his bones, not after the day they’d had curled around each other, blood fizzing, making each other laugh.  Making each other come.  Louis’s nerves fired; he shivered just remembering how he’d played, and how Harry had looked, the pretty bow of his lips and the curve of his hip, watching him from the bed with intense eyes.  Lovely, wonderful Harry.  He was like some sort of treasure that Louis had managed to stumble upon, a bright little diamond hidden away by the universe in time and space, who happened to have been assigned to Dogwood Cabin even though he was too young…

“Oh, fuck it.”  Louis shook off the sleeve of his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch.  He padded up the staircase to find Harry asleep, curled into a ball and clutching a pillow to his chest.  Louis was mildly relieved that he didn’t have to explain himself, didn’t have to explain anything.  Not yet.  Harry had a stormy frown on his face, but his cheeks were dry.  No tear tracks.  Louis slipped out of his clothing and lay down next to him.  Put a hand on his back to feel the rhythm of his deep breaths, in and out.  In and out.  
Louis hoped they wouldn’t have to talk about it in the morning.

 

“What’s our team name, then?” Harry asked, scootching over on the bench so Louis could slide into the booth after him.  Niall had invited them both out to a pub quiz at the last minute.  Apparently none of the other French horns were going to be able to make it, aside from Gladys, and it seemed like a nice way to relax the night before a concert.

“The Biscuits,” Niall said absently, looking over his shoulder at Gladys, who was registering their team with the quiz master.

Louis pulled a face.  “The Biscuits?” he asked, skeptically.  “Um.  Aren’t the team names supposed to be like puns or something?”

Niall shrugged, unconcerned.

“You guys are the French horns, for crying out loud!” Louis said.  He elbowed Harry, smirking, then nodded at Niall.  “The Horny Bastards, there you go!  Made one for you.  Perfect.  All set!  You.  Are.  Welcome.”

Harry laughed and rolled his eyes fondly.  He suppressed a smile at the way Louis’s warm ankle moved against his own as Louis settled in more fully on the bench.  Louis had pressed their legs together under the table as soon as they’d sat down.  He’d been unusually demonstrative all day, really, and Harry suspected it might be his way of apologizing for the little fight about Florian Weil they’d had the night before.  Thinking about it did strange things to Harry’s heart, made him feel happy and oddly worried all at once.  

Niall turned back to them, taking a pull from his pint.  “You can take it up with Gladys, Tommo.  She’s the captain, not me.”  

He was obviously supremely unimpressed with Louis’s punning abilities, which made Harry laugh further.  He felt especially happy because he could feel Louis shifting in agitation next to him.  It was the best when Louis got all wound up; he was much more likely to attack-kiss Harry to relieve the tension.

“Well, Ms. Howard,” Louis said, when Gladys returned to the booth and sat down next to Niall.

“Yes, Mr. Tomlinson?” she replied, not looking up from where she was organizing their team materials: score sheet, answer tablet, and three mini pencils all lined up in a row on the table.

“The Biscuits, Gladys?  Really?” Louis went on.

Gladys looked up, smiling at him with a sort of benevolent tolerance.  “Louis, my dear, dear boy, I’ve been doing pub quizzes with the same team name since well before you were born…  I’m not going to switch now because, what?  You want to make some kind of...” she made dismissive fluttering motion with one of her elegant, well-manicured hands, “stupid sexual innuendo about a French horn or something?”

“You tell ‘im, Gladdo!” Niall said with a huge snort of delight, wiping beer off his mouth with the back of his hand and cackling.  “Biscuits for life!”

Louis slumped against the back of the bench theatrically, properly chastised.

Gladys’s eyes were twinkling; she was clearly endeared.  “Sorry, Tommo.”

Harry was laughing silently next to Louis, biting his lip.  He had to sit on his hands so that he wouldn’t wrap an arm around Louis to comfort him, even though he knew Louis was stewing overdramatically for comic effect.

“Why Biscuits?” Harry asked Gladys, hoping to distract himself.  He took a small sip of beer.

Niall put an elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand and looking at Gladys with a bit of a dreamy expression.  “Love this story,” he mumbled.  “‘S dead romantic.”

“Oh really?” Louis sat up again, huddling over his own pint, his voice bright and full of interest.  Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the way he’d pressed their ankles more firmly together upon hearing Niall’s comment, a warmth of pleasure spreading through him.

Gladys patted Niall’s arm.  “You’re so sweet to always indulge me.”  They chuckled together, both secure in the knowledge that it was absolutely no burden to him at all.

“To answer your question, Mr. Styles,” she said, turning back to Harry, “I met my husband at university.  We worked at this terrible little cafe together, Swinton’s.”  She gave a small toss of her head, and a single laugh at that thought of it, and Harry felt a bittersweet tug in his gut.  “His name was Alan Cooke, my husband.”  Gladys laughed again after she said it and paused to look Harry right in the eye.  “He’s been dead sixteen years and I still get a thrill from saying his name out loud…  Alan Cooke.”

 _Louis Tomlinson,_ Harry thought, unable to stop himself.   _Louis Tomlinson, Louis Tomlinson._  His heart clenched at the stupid zip of electricity it sent through him, every time.  Louis spread his legs wider, pushing their knees up against each other and Harry swallowed thickly, nodding at Gladys so she would go on.  

“Anyway, it was Cooke with an e,” Gladys explained.  “C-O-O-K-E.  And it was very important to him, the e at end.  He’d always get so mad if they wrote it on the schedule without the e, always made sure to specify when he told people his name, that kind of thing.  So we teased him about it.  ‘Cookie,’ we’d call him, all the time.”  She shook her head, rolling her eyes at herself.  “Until eventually, being the true master of comedy that I am, I realized we should really be calling him Alan Biscuit, instead.”

Harry was fighting hard not to break into a giant grin.  It felt like his heart was taking up too much space in his chest.

Gladys cleared her throat.  “Now, we weren’t dating at the time.  I was two years older, and I used that fact as a way to sort of shield myself from how I actually felt about him.  I was teasing; I was most definitely _not_ flirting.  Alan Biscuit might have been tall and ginger and smart and kind and good at making salami sandwiches specifically for me, but he was a baby and it most certainly was not a crush!”

They all laughed softly together.  Harry had to close his eyes briefly, balling up his fists.  He wanted to cuddle Louis into his side so much, was just itching to reach out and rest a hand on his thigh.  

“Until one Sunday night, we’d all planned to go do the pub quiz, everyone that worked at Swinton’s.  Was pretty much a weekly thing at that point.  The new Sunday night pub quiz at the White Swan was for the service industry.  But this time, as it went, Alan Biscuit and I were the only ones who turned up.”  Harry shifted happily in his seat; Gladys’s eyes were twinkling so bright.  “And I thought I’d be so funny.  I said, ‘I’ll get us set up!’ and I went over and registered our team name as The Biscuits.  And I went back over to Alan feeling so pleased with myself, and he saw what I’d done and he said, ‘Oh the Biscuits, huh?  Plural?  What, are we getting married, now?’”  Gladys laughed softly, a tremor of emotion in it.  “And suddenly, I just knew.  I knew it was Alan and it was going to keep being Alan for me for a long, long time.  And I said, ‘If I’m getting married to you, Biscuit, I’m keeping my own last name.’  And he laughed, and took my hand, and that was that.”

Harry gave a long, wistful sigh at the end of the story.  He must have looked somewhat starry-eyed, too, because everyone else broke into fond laughter.  Harry turned a little pink, but joined in.  

“Ok _ayyyy,_ fine,” Louis moaned out slowly, still chuckling.  He reached across the table to squeeze Gladys’s hand, smiling at her.  “I guess The Biscuits is an acceptable team name after all.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Louis,” Gladys replied.

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis said, giving a happy shrug and a little wave of his hand.  “Now, are you guys any good?  Because I personally prefer winning to losing as a general rule.”

Harry bit his thumbnail, staring absently into his beer for a moment as they all talked over each other about team strategy and their trivia strengths and weaknesses.  Louis’s leg was still pressed nicely against his under the table and thoughts of Gladys’s lovely story lingered in his mind and it should have been wonderful, but Harry felt an underlying melancholy instead.

Louis tittered next to him, in his perfect Louis way, eyes scrunched up merrily in reaction to something Niall had said.  He was shaking his head, like he was just waiting out Niall’s ridiculousness for his own turn to speak.  Harry’s heart lurched at the sight of him and settled into an ache.  

 _Louis Tomlinson,_ Harry thought, the same sweet exhilaration running through him as it had before when he’d pronounced Louis’s name carefully in his mind.   _Does he even think about you that way at all?  Would he ever?_ he wondered, as Louis and Niall carried on.   _You don’t know.  You don’t even know, you hopeless fool._  Emotion tightened up his throat, almost made his eyes sting.   _He’s right here next to you.  He’s right here and you miss him, still._

“What are your top trivia categories, H?” Louis asked, oblivious, nudging Harry purposely with his elbow just as Harry was lifting his pint for a sip.  Louis’s eyes were glittering in the low light of the pub.  He looked terribly beautiful.

 _You’re going to have to talk to him._  The idea was a heavy, sour knot in his stomach.   _You_ know _you have to talk._  Harry had known for a while.  Everything was still too undefined.  For him, anyway.  He’d been stubbornly ignoring it; he always wanted Louis’s presence so much.    

“Hmmm?” Louis prompted, when Harry didn’t respond.  His mouth curled into a wickedly teasing half-smile.  “Tight Trousers?  Advanced Curl Maintenance?  Nude Roadside Photo Shoot Etiquette?”

Harry somehow managed to push all of his troublesome emotional thoughts aside, as there were much more pressing matters at hand.

“Oh, and what’s your area of expertise, huh, Tommo?” he asked, smirking, nodding to Niall to make sure he was listening.  “Being A Short-Arse?”

Niall’s eyes lit up.  He cackled, the beer sloshing around in his pint.  “Subcategory: What to do when you can’t quite reach...”

“You can both go fuck yourselves,” Louis said, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest as the two of them laughed together.  He was suppressing a smile, though, Harry could see it at the edges of his eyes.

“Okay, gentlemen,” Gladys intoned, raising a finger and pointing to where the quiz master had set up behind them, indicating that it was time to listen.  “That’s enough of that.  Let’s concentrate.  It’s about to begin.”

Louis scoffed in protest, as if he obviously hadn’t been to blame.

“Oh shut it, Tip Toes,” she said, and there was so much laughter and bellyaching afterward that they only heard the first question of the night on the second read through.

Two hours later, The Biscuits were neck and neck with I Just Quizzed My Pants going into the final question.  Louis was out for blood and he was expressing his guilt over supplying the wrong answer for the last question (“Who did John McEnroe beat to advance to the 1980 Wimbledon final?”) by blaming it all on Harry, facetiously.  Or semi-facetiously, anyway.

“It’s all your fault, Styles,” he said, flicking his fringe out of his eyes and glaring across the bar at Just Quizzed’s apparent team captain, as if he hoped to put the fear of God in him during the little break before the big, final wager question.

“What?  How do you figure that?” Harry said in a squeak, eyebrows flying up in exaggerated outrage.

“‘Might have been Jimmy Connors,’” Louis said, mimicking Harry’s contribution to their previous answer brainstorm in a meak, high-pitched whisper.    

“Oh, okay.  So suggesting the correct answer, that makes it my fault?  Got it, I’ll try to remember for next time,” Harry scoffed, poking at Louis’s flank with one of his long fingers.

Louis curved his torso to the right, using his elbow to block Harry’s attack as he let out a half-giggle.  “Well, if you’d spoken up a little more…  I’m just saying...” he shrugged.

Harry snorted incredulously, feeling such frustratingly strong affection for Louis even though he was being insufferable.  Because of it, really.  “Sure, you weren’t dead set on it being Ivan Lendl right from the start.  Didn’t steamroll over everyone else’s opinions, or anything, at all.  Nope!   _Sooooooo_ open to input from others, as usual.”

“Exactly,” Louis said, smiling at Harry with an air of self-satisfaction.  “God, Hazza, you really are good at doing spot-on summaries of events that have just occurred.  ‘S an amazing talent.”

Harry burst into laughter at that, shaking his head in fond exasperation.  “You are fucking ridiculous.”

Louis shrugged again, grinning, his eyes full of open pleasure at Harry’s reaction.

Harry didn’t realize they were being observed until Niall made a noise of amusement on the other side of the table.

“What?” Louis asked warily, the pink on his cheeks matching Harry's.

“I didn’t say anything,” Niall said, taking a rather smug gulp of beer.  He laughed when he saw the looks they gave him in response.  “Ok, fine.  ‘S just, you know, I’m still enjoying being right about the two of you.”  He gestured between them with his pint.  “Getting on.”

Harry felt an itch of self-consciousness run down his back, and he started to bite his thumbnail again.  

“I’m mean, you’re both so damn weird,” Niall said, shaking his head.  His face lit up suddenly, as though he’d just remembered something.  “You have more in common than ya think!  Like, just the other day, I was at Tesco buying garlic bread ‘cause I wanted to eat it, and _Boléro_ came on over the speakers.  A fuckin’ Muzak version of _Boléro_.  I realized like, holy shit!  I’ve never met two people who hate _Boléro_ more than Harry and Louis.  Never in my life.”

Harry froze in his seat, Niall’s words washing over him like a thousand gallons of ice water.  It felt like his heart had stopped in his chest and all the blood had drained right out of his body.  He wasn’t blinking.  He wasn’t breathing.

“You know, Haz,” Niall went on, completely unaware that the world as they knew it was ending, “I always thought it was so strange how you’d never listen to it.  Then I went to a performance of it a coupl’a years ago with _this_ loser, and he got up almost as soon as it began!  Fuckin’ abandoned me, Louis did…”

Harry was only vaguely conscious of the fact that Niall was even speaking, anymore.  His initial shock had passed and he was bathed in the sickly, oppressive heat of remembered and renewed humiliation.   _Baaa-ba-da-da-da-da-da-dut-da-da-dahhh..._  A sweat broke out over his chilled skin.  The mix of shame and hurt was so overwhelming and sharp, Harry thought he might choke on it; he could almost feel the bile at the base of his esophagus.

He stared blankly ahead, praying that Niall wouldn’t notice his discomfort and how close he was to tears.  Louis had likely read it right off his face, already.  He felt utterly exposed, the depth of his childish insecurity laid disgustingly bare.   _Louis Tomlinson._  Harry was so hyper-aware of Louis’s presence next to him on the booth’s bench, it was like he was sitting beside a sparking electrical wire.

Then Louis’s hand closed over Harry’s under the table.  Harry made a soft, involuntary noise, his heart lodging in his throat and staying there.  He had to close his eyes, on the verge of tears for an entirely different reason now as Louis’s small, warm fingers twisted around his own.  Louis’s grip was firm and reassuring and he squeezed Harry’s hand at regular intervals, occasionally brushing his thumb in small circles over the delicate skin of its back.

Harry could feel Louis’s pulse racing when the underside of his wrist pressed against the top of Harry’s.  It made him long for so many things, absolutely ache for them.  He felt full to the brim, swollen up with unexpressed and impossibly strong emotion.   _Louis Tomlinson,_ Harry thought again, just as Louis pressed the tips of his fingers into the palm of his hand.  He sighed, and squeezed back.

“I think we should wager all fifteen points, no matter what.  All in!” Gladys said, her voice still sounding tinny and far away to Harry’s ears.  The quiz master must have announced that it was time for the final question.

“Whatever you want, Howard,” Harry heard Louis croak, his voice cracking slightly.

“Really?” Niall asked, as if he and Gladys had been expecting more of a fight.  “Sweet!  Go Biscuits!  In it to win it!”

They ended up taking fourth, but Harry couldn’t be bothered.  Louis kept holding his hand until it was time to leave.   

As soon as they’d crawled into the cab to head to Hampstead, Louis tugged Harry to him, quickly sliding an arm around his shoulders.  He arranged Harry carefully against him, so that Harry’s body was almost perpendicular to his own, long legs extending out the width of the cab, the back of Harry’s head resting on Louis’s collarbone, just below his chin.  But for Louis murmuring Harry’s address to the driver and settling up at the end, they spent the ride in silence.  Louis kept his face pressed into Harry’s hair, breathing him in periodically in a way that made Harry’s heart swell.  He guided Harry into his building with a hand on the small of his back.

It wasn’t until they were safely inside Harry’s flat and had removed their shoes, standing almost bashfully  together in the entryway, that Harry raised his head to risk a look into Louis’s eyes.  He gave a strangled, nervous laugh at what he saw there, shaken and overwhelmed by how softly Louis’s expression was shining up at him, almost infinitely tender.  He opened his mouth to speak, but he ended up taking a shuddering breath instead, unable to master all the emotion churning inside him.

“Oh,” Louis choked out, _“Haz.”_  It was gently weighted, the way Louis said it, his voice thick and almost teary, and it made Harry’s blood sing with sweet, terrifying joy.

Louis stepped toward him, slowly lifting a hand to caress his cheek.  “Harry,” he whispered, breathless, as he pressed his thumb into Harry’s slightly parted lips.  Louis’s tentative, upturned face was full of reverence when he continued.  He stammered quietly, not breaking eye contact.  “You’re so -- you are _so_ beautiful.  You must -- you must know.  You’re so beautiful to me, Harry.”

Harry had been observing Louis from heavy-lidded eyes, and they fell shut at Louis’s words, a tingling warmth running through his body.  He was so worked up that he was actually rocking back and forth slightly on his feet, like some kind of human metronome keeping an irregular emotional beat.

Louis moved a hand to the back of Harry’s neck, steadying him with the familiar touch.

“Harry, I -- ” Louis began, cutting himself off and swallowing hard.  He was rubbing his thumb over the skin at Harry’s nape, like he often did, but there was a nervous twitch in it, a jerkiness that wasn’t normally there.  That comforted Harry further and he sighed, his eyes blinking back open so he could look at Louis.

Louis let out a low, anguished laugh, shaking his head.  He took a deep breath and tried again.  “I-I just.  I want you to know how -- how sorry I am.”  It came out in raspy whisper, but his voice grew a little more confident as he went on, the touch of his hand firmer at Harry’s neck.  “I’m so sorry about _Boléro_ , Harry.  I’m -- I’m sorry about all of it.  How I acted back then.  How I treated you…  It was -- I… it kills me, Harry.  I’m so sorry.  So sorry.”

Harry made a small, pained noise.  He could see in Louis’s eyes that it is was a sincere apology, and it meant so much to him that he couldn’t properly fashion a verbal response; he was too overwhelmed, it was too much at once.  He closed his eyes and leaned in to rest his forehead against Louis’s instead, just breathing deeply with him for a short while.  Harry’s heart was almost beating out of his chest, his nervous system in complete disarray, and feeling their bodies touching in such a simple way grounded him somehow.  

“Harry,” Louis murmured hoarsely, forehead still against Harry’s, his fingers slipping up into his curls.  “I really am just so sor-- ”

“It‘s okay, Louis,” Harry whispered.  He pulled back, standing up to his full height, but staying close enough to run a reassuring hand up and down Louis’s back, letting it settle possessively at the top of his arse.  “It’s okay.”

Harry tugged on his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger as he regarded Louis from above, his eyes moving over Louis’s face like he was trying to commit it to memory.  There were so many other things he should to talk to Louis about right now, so many things he wanted to say to him, and so many things he needed to ask him.

He took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.  He didn’t even know where to start.  Or how to.

Louis had been looking up at him with such openness, but seeing Harry struggle to speak had brought a wariness back to his features.  His eyes were guarded now, as if he were afraid of what Harry might be about to say.  Harry’s mind flashed back to the pub, to the perfect way Louis had held his hand, the warmth of it, and he realized he was afraid, too.  Worried that if he spoke up right then, he’d ruin this lovely, fragile moment between them.  He didn’t want to scare this Louis off; he wanted to keep him.

So he swallowed over his conflicting emotion and instead threw caution to the wind, quickly gathering Louis up into his arms, searching out his lips and kissing him fervently.  Louis made a tiny sound of pleased surprise and then kissed back in equal measure, his tongue delving into Harry’s mouth immediately, clever and stroking, making Harry moan.

They staggered into the living area and Louis backed Harry up against one of the walls.  Harry felt a dizzy, buzzy sort of bliss from Louis’s focused attention, thrilling at the way Louis hands were needy for him, roaming all over his body as they kissed.  It was such a heady thing, always, the way Louis’s desperation matched his own.  How well they worked together.   _God.  Louis._  Harry wanted to devour him.

He palmed at Louis’s amazing arse and pressed his fingertips into the meat of it, like he knew Louis loved, earning a muffled but delighted squeak for his efforts.  It made him giggle against Louis’s lips in ridiculous elation.

“Shut up,” Louis said, breaking the kiss and giggling a little himself.  He dug a knuckle into Harry’s stomach, making him squirm away to the side, slightly.  Harry didn’t relinquish his firm grip on Louis’s bum, though.

“Uh-uh.  No, I won’t,” Harry cooed teasingly into Louis’s ear, knowing it would rile him up.  “I know what you like, Mr. Tomlinson.”

Harry sucked in a breath, making a squeak of his own when Louis ran a hand up and under his jumper, skimming the skin on his torso and thumbing over his right nipple before pinching it once.

“I know what you like, too,” Louis whispered, sly and slightly taunting.  “And as much as you like this,” he brushed his thumb over the peaked nipple again, applying more pressure, “I think really, you like my arse even more than I do.  Don’t you, Styles?”

More of Harry’s blood rushed south as he leaned fully back against the wall and parted his legs, slotting Louis in between his thighs.  He kneaded the flesh of Louis right arse cheek, relishing the way it made Louis’s eyelids flutter.

He could only manage a weak hum in response.  

“Bet you can’t wait to sink your teeth into it,” Louis murmured, mouthing at the side of Harry’s neck.

Harry flushed, groaning at the thought.  Need shivered down his spine.

“I think,” Harry said, his voice raw, pulse beating in the heat on his face.  He moved his right hand up to the bottom of Louis’s spine and then slid it slowly down the back of his trousers, edging his long fingers under the elastic of Louis’s pants and running them lightly over the cleft of his arse.  “I think,” he began again, when Louis gasped and arched against him at the touch, grinding subtly into Harry’s hip and then pushing back against his hand.  He cleared his throat.  “I think it’s actually a _shared_ favorite, Louis.”

“Oh God, _Hazza,”_ Louis whined, burying his warm, red face into Harry’s jumper when Harry’s middle finger finally dipped between his bumcheeks.

Harry could feel Louis’s cock hot against him, already fattened up in his trousers, and he had to take a deep, measured breath to calm himself before he went on.  “What do you think?  Hmm?  Because I bet you’re thinking about my hands on your naked arse, just like I am, aren’t you, Lou?  Squeezing and spreading you apart.  Licking you out, nice and slow, just the way you like it.”

Louis shuddered against him, jolting up rigidly and letting out a small whimper.  “Fuck.  Harry.   _Please,”_ he moaned.  “Please.”

He gazed up at Harry, hectic color spread high across his cheekbones, breathing ragged, eyes endlessly blue.  He looked as wildly turned on as Harry was, and just so, _so_ achingly open to him.  Hot, unguarded affection was shining up at Harry alongside the crazy lust to an extent that he had never seen before.  It stopped Harry’s heart; it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever...  It made something inside him give way.

“Christ, Louis,” Harry said, undone.  He raised the hand that wasn’t tucked into Louis’s trousers up to cover his own eyes.  His voice came out wretched with desire.  “Of-of course.  Yeah.  ‘course.”   

They both laughed shakily as they teetered over to the spiral staircase together, unsteady on their legs. Harry trailed after Louis, letting him tug him along by his fingers.  Louis kept smiling back at him in a small way that somehow made Harry feel like he might faint.

When they got to the top of the stairs, they slowly stripped off each other’s clothing.  Harry’s breath became deeper and deeper as more of Louis’s golden skin was revealed.  It surprised him sometimes how delicious it still was to look at Louis, how it just seemed to get more and more delicious every time.

“How do you want me?” Louis asked.

Harry had to tear his eyes away from Louis’s glistening prick to respond.  “On -- on your front,” he finally got out, coughing into his hand.

He guided Louis down onto the bed, stacking pillows under his hips and settling in behind him between his legs.  He ran his hands easily over Louis’s sides first, biting his lip in simple happiness at the goose pimples he raised.  

Seeing Louis like this, his head turned to the side against the bed, sooty eyelashes on his cheek, the graceful line of his spine curving down to the generous swell of his arse -- it always took Harry’s breath away.   _Especially tonight,_ he thought, a tremor of tenderness running through him.   

“You’re so gorgeous, Lou,” he murmured, before kissing slowly down the length of his back, mouthing softly at the smooth skin.  Louis shifted under his ministrations, arching at each kiss and letting out the loveliest little moans, the kind that drove Harry absolutely mad and went straight to his dick.  “So gorgeous, always Lou, always,” Harry said, as he pressed his lips against the dimples at the base of Louis’s spine.

He squeezed at Louis’s bum, thumbing gentle circles into it.  Hefting it a little, like he was testing the weight.

“‘S the perfect arse,” Harry croaked out gruffly, leaning down to carefully sink his teeth into the left cheek, smiling when Louis sucked in air.  He kissed over the phantom bite mark and then sat back on his haunches again.  “Can you really blame me?  So perfect.  Think about it all the time,” he said, indulging in another satisfying squeeze and watching it bounce just right when he gave it the tiniest of slaps.  

On any other night, Louis would have raised some kind of subtle objection to Harry’s praise, let Harry know in some little way that he thought the compliments were exaggerated and undeserved.  He’d have snorted in disbelief or rolled his eyes, or made a sarcastic comment while squirming slightly in discomfort at the positive attention.  Not this time.  This time, when Harry glanced up at Louis, he saw a blush of pleasure bloom on the side of Louis’s face and spread down the back of his neck.  Louis looked completely relaxed and happy in his position of vulnerability and for a staggering second Harry felt so much for him, he thought he might cry.

 _“Louis,”_ Harry whispered, overwhelmed.  He ducked his head to get to the task at hand.

He spread Louis carefully apart and ran his tongue lightly over his entrance in a series of small, teasing kitten licks, groaning into it when Louis arched in response and a visible spasm ran through the muscles of his back.  All the air punched out of Louis’s lungs as Harry continued, and he made a choked off sound, burying his face fully into the bedding.

Harry always loved this, loved the way it made Louis go slowly out of his mind.  But it felt especially intimate and wonderful tonight as he worked Louis over, nibbling and sucking at his rim, making him tremble, before spreading him wider and licking all the way in.  Louis was moaning openly and writhing against the stack of pillows by the time Harry pushed a spit-slick finger in beside his tongue.

“Harold,” Louis bit out.  “God.”

Harry kept his left hand moving soothingly over the side of Louis’s hip, palming his arse occasionally as he continued to open Louis up, prodding gently, fucking in and out with his tongue.  He felt Louis go rigid under him, the arch in his back even more prominent than before, and for a second he thought Louis had come.

“Fuck,” Louis breathed out, panting and batting at Harry’s head with a clammy hand, craning his neck to look back at him.  “Fuck.  Harry, ’s too much.  Stop.  Please.  Don’t want to come yet.  W-want to ride you.  Want to ride you so bad.”

Harry’s heart lurched at the desperate, hopeful look on Louis’s face.  His own painfully hard cock twitched between his legs.

“Oh,” he got out, dragging in a shuddering breath.  “Yeah, okay.”

Louis flipped onto his back and smiled up at Harry, so smudgy and blurry and beautiful it hurt Harry to look at him.

“‘S my other favorite,” Louis said, almost shyly, like he was confiding a secret.  His chest was still heaving as he reached a hand up and stroked Harry’s cheek.  “Riding you.”

Harry pressed a kiss into Louis’s hand, closing his eyes, his heart fluttering and skipping a beat as Louis murmured quietly, “Beautiful, beautiful boy.”

“Do you think you’re ready?” Harry managed to ask, as Louis started to move again, guiding Harry down onto his back where he wanted him and leaning over to get the lube out of the nightstand to his left.

Louis nodded, humming his assent.  

He laughed softly at the sound Harry made when he finally wrapped his hand around Harry’s neglected dick, slicking it up.  Louis worked efficiently, straddling Harry and positioning himself over him, placing Harry’s hands on his hips before he lined Harry’s cock up with his hole. He sank down slowly, sighing in pleasure with his head thrown back, exposing the column of his throat.  He made such a picture.

Harry’s fingers were digging into Louis’s skin by the time he was fully seated, breath coming in quick little gasps, overwhelmed by the tight, perfect heat of Louis around him.  

“Harry,” Louis moaned as he started to move slowly, rocking his hips.  He looked down at Harry with glinting, hooded eyes, pressing his palms against Harry’s chest as he repeatedly raised and lowered himself on Harry’s cock.  “Want you so much, all the time.  So beautiful.”

Harry couldn’t help the way he started to thrust up off the bed slightly, matching the tortuously slow, building rhythm Louis had set, coming up to meet it.

“It’s so good.  So good,” Louis gasped, wrecked above him.  

He’d started to stroke himself, still fucking down onto Harry, faster and faster now.  Louis’s mouth was hanging open from the onslaught of sensation, and Harry could see that he was edging closer and closer to orgasm by the way he’d started to work his jaw.  He was in awe of Louis, heat building in his own belly, molten and white hot.  He felt out of his mind with need, hips snapping up into Louis, frantic to come at the same time.

“‘S always so good with you, always,” Louis practically sobbed.  “The -- “ his breath caught.  “The best.  Always, _always.”_

“Louis,” Harry moaned out, feeling a surge of electric emotion from Louis’s words.   _The best.  It’s true.  Always.  Always._

Louis came suddenly, cock pulsing between them, at the sound of Harry saying his name.  The sight of it was so overwhelming that Harry squeezed his eyes shut involuntarily, breath ragged.  His hips stuttered up into the clenching heat of Louis body and he followed him right over the edge, the pleasure searing through him in long waves.

Louis collapsed forward onto him, shaking slightly.  

“I’ll never move again,” he mumbled into Harry’s chest, sounding as utterly spent as Harry felt.

Harry laughed weakly, running a comforting hand up and down Louis back before he eased his softening dick out of Louis’s body.

“‘S a mess,” Louis sighed.  He curled into Harry’s side and traced a finger through a patch of come that had landed on Harry’s belly.

Harry just nodded, not ready for speech.  He was so emotionally and physically exhausted, he knew he was going to pass out any second.

“Concert tomorrow,” Louis reminded him blearily, for no reason, making Harry giggle once and nod again.

“I know,” he murmured, pulling Louis even closer against him.

 _You have to talk to him, still,_ Harry thought, a twinge of uneasiness moving across the edge of his mind as his eyes fell shut.   _After this cycle.  After the Dvořák._  He didn’t want to jeopardize Louis’s performance with an emotional upheaval.

Harry sighed wistfully, the same strange, worried happiness from earlier twisting around his heart.  “You’re going to do so great, Louis.”  It was the last thing he said before he fell asleep.

 

The last of the applause for the _Tannhäuser_ Overture fell away, and there was hushed silence in the hall.  Just a few muffled coughs and the sound of rustling programs as Louis rose from his seat, leaving Eleanor and his sheet music behind to go stand out in front of the orchestra, alone.  He blinked once or twice into the bright lights that shone down from the catwalk above the stage.  They made it almost impossible to actually see the audience as anything other than a collection of amorphous blobs, shadowy figures who didn’t quite seem real around the edges.  Louis almost felt as though he were underwater. 

It was oddly comforting.

The applause started up again when Harry reappeared from the wings, nodding pleasantly to the crowd as he walked across the stage.  His hands were folded modestly in front of him, white baton clutched in his right fist and pointing to the ground.  Shuffling feet slightly pigeon-toed as always.  Louis raised Thunder to his chin almost before Harry was on the podium, fingers twitching slightly as he visualized the first notes of the concerto.  Nervous energy whipped down his spine, tingled across the backs of his legs.   _I can do this._  Louis took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, keep his hands steady.   _Steady hands, so important,_ he thought, inanely.   _Indispensable for a professional violinist.  Now stop thinking up such absolute shit.  Concentrate.  Focus._

Louis glanced over at Harry just as he raised his arms to ready the orchestra.  In the split second before he lowered them, he met Louis’s gaze, and the look of adoration in his eyes staggered Louis.  Fierce and passionate, and utterly unafraid.  It took his breath away, wiped every analytical thought out of his mind.  The orchestra was already halfway through their opening phrase before he came back to himself and realized he was supposed to start playing in another measure.

_Let go._

His violin sang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the pieces from Harry's second concert cycle, in performance order:
> 
> 1\. [Overture to Tannhäuser](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRmCEGHt-Qk) by Wagner
> 
> 2\. Violin Concerto in A Minor, Op. 53 by Dvorak:  
> [Movement 1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFSXOeuOvsw)  
> [Movement 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PpuboJ08wU)  
> [Movement 3](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=263ntR-eTIk)
> 
> 3\. [Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Op. 55, "Eroica,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmfLIerVubk) by Beethoven
> 
> If you listen to nothing else, PLEASE listen to the third movement of the Dvorak and tell me it's not Louis Tomlinson in classical music form! I'm so happy I finally get to link to this concerto, because it's my number one favorite piece ever, and the very first time Addy (gloria_andrews) and I were discussing this idea for an au, I was like "Louis has to play this Dvorak concerto; he has to!" Haha. I've loved it since I was a kid and didn't know what I was listening to when I would watch [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NuuxWKD7N0) Quentin Blake short, which we had on VHS with other little kid animated stories. In the credits it only says that it's an "improvisation on a theme by Dvorak," so when I was in high school I picked out the main melody on my trumpet and would play it for people trying to see if anyone recognized the specific piece (this was before Youtube -- now I could have just typed in "Dvorak violin" and the concerto would have come up). Finally my sister (whose terrible experience at Interlochen inspired Harry's) found it for me. Sorry for that long-ass story.
> 
> Harry and Louis refer to violin hickeys in this chapter. They are what they sound like. Feel free to do a Google image search!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!! Posting early because I have family stuff tomorrow. :)

“... But the real highlight of the evening was Louis Tomlinson’s performance of Dvořák’s _Violin Concerto in A minor_.  He held the audience captive from his first notes, weaving together the threads of Dvořák’s Czech melodies with a practiced hand.  The sweet, lyrical quality of the second movement came through exceptionally well in the round, wine-rich tones of his ca. 1635 “Grand Amati,” and contrasted with the joyfully crisp and energetic _furiant_ of the third.  Overall it was a powerful and emotional performance, complemented perfectly by Harry Styles and the London Symphony Orchestra.  Tomlinson, who has perhaps been overlooked too often in discussions of today’s younger generation of violinists…  Blah, blah, blah, then they just put a bit of my résumé in.  Runner-up in the International Tchaikovsky Competition and all that.”

Harry grinned as he watched Louis lean over the island in his kitchen, cereal bowl in one hand and newspapers spread out beneath him.  He was soft and rumpled in a wrinkled cotton t-shirt and pajama pants, eyes still a bit sleep-glazed, but twinkling with pleasure.  Harry felt a swelling in his heart when Louis bit his lip and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, flipping the page over before he was even done with the first review, hunting for the next one.  Harry had run out and bought all the papers he could find that had an Arts section, and marked every review with a yellow Post-It note before Louis had even woken up.  They were all positive.  All _glowing_.

And Louis was glowing.  He stopped reading them aloud, but Harry could see his eyes skimming over the words, his cheeks tinged with pink.  It made Harry indescribably happy to see Louis so proud of himself.  Then he felt that ever-present tug, that whole body ache and he had to touch him, had to wrap his arms around him from behind on the barstool, smothering those pink cheeks with tiny kisses and burying his nose into Louis’s hair.

“Are you getting high on me now?” Louis scoffed, squirming and almost spilling his cereal as he pretended to be put off by the cuddling.  “You’re huffing me like spray paint.  Don’t do drugs, Harold.”  Harry could feel him shiver, though.  He could feel the tremble of Louis’s muscles beneath his touch, and he smiled.

“I’m so proud of you, babe.”  He whispered it into the downy hairs at the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of his boy.

“Thank you.”  Louis’s answer was soft too, his voice warm and gentle and openly affectionate.  A spring of tingling happiness bubbled up in Harry’s chest, and he was sure he’d never been so in love.   _I love you,_ he thought, as he pulled Louis around on the stool to kiss him properly, tasting milk and sugar. _I love you, I love you…  Louis, I love you.  Louis Tomlinson._  He was sure his heart would burst into flames and rocket out of his chest, ricochet around the room before landing right in Louis’s outstretched hand.  (At which point Louis would run away from him, cackling madly and holding it over his head as he led Harry in a chase around the island, over the back of the couch…  It was almost like Harry hadn’t woken up at all, like this whole morning was still a dream.)

Harry was on the edge of saying it, sudden rush of nerves and excitement making his fingers quiver and his vision go sideways.  He broke their kiss, bringing his hands up to Louis’s face as he gazed at him, blue eyes and sharp angles and morning scruff. _I really love you.  I know you don’t want to hear it, but..._

Just as Harry opened his mouth to speak, his mobile went off.  Loudly.  With the romantic strains of Jason Derulo’s ‘Talk Dirty to Me.’  Louis started laughing hysterically and pushed Harry away.  “Get that thing out of whichever war-ravaged pocket you keep it in and answer it, already.”

Harry rolled his eyes and fished the phone out of his trousers, pressing Accept with a giddy smile on his face.  “Hello?”

“It’s Grimmy,” he whispered to Louis a few seconds later, covering the speaker with his hand.  “Wants me to come in for a meeting.”

Louis pouted.  “But _Haz,_ it’s our only day off before we start rehearsals again.  I was planning on…”  He made a suggestive movement with his tongue that caused Harry’s knees to go weak and blood to rush to his extremities.  Harry clamped a hand over Louis’s awful, filthy mouth, stifling giggles as Louis licked a warm stripe up his palm.  When he started to nibble lightly on Harry’s pinky, it became almost impossible to control his voice and make plans with Grimshaw like a professional.

“Sure,” he said, trying not to squeak.  “I can be there in half an hour.  Yes, I know.”  He winked at Louis.  “It was absolutely wonderful, just perfect.  I’m sure he’s read them.  Okay, see you then!”

He hung up before Grimshaw could continue to gush to him about the finale performance of his second concert cycle, and leaned in to replace his hand on Louis’s mouth with his lips.  One kiss turned into three before he finally dragged himself away, muttering, “Gotta go.  Business!  Adult business!”

“Just remember, Styles, I’ve got some adult business of my own I’d like to attend to whenever you can fit it into your busy schedule…”

Harry stuck out his tongue at Louis on his way out the door, just as Louis made a goofy face and crossed his eyes.

*

Harry took the tube to Barbican Station, reveling in the short walks outside.  It was already the second of May, almost summer, and the weather was unseasonably warm and lovely in the city.  Women were starting to wear sundresses, and men were looping their suit jackets over one shoulder as they roamed Aldersgate.  Harry smiled at everyone he passed, so full of good will and human spirit he thought he might start singing.  He felt like the sun had come out to shine just for him, and he was sharing its light and warmth with the entire city of London -- the sort of morning where everything was a metaphor for his life, _his_.  But the more distance he got from the flat, the more he felt a little relieved that he hadn’t said… well.  Most of him was so happy, but there was this other part, this vestigial, ancient part of him that was still wary of Louis Tomlinson.  Specifically of how he might act if Harry tried to bring up serious feelings.  The lion’s share of him was doing its best to suppress the clawing doubts; they’d weakened in strength since the night of the pub quiz, but they were there.  Still.   _He probably wouldn’t say it back,_ Harry thought.   _I can’t see him… he might bolt, or…  Okay, not thinking about it._  Harry let the sun shine on him, refusing to fully acknowledge the small, dark knot in his chest.

The end result was that he had enough desperate love to fill up a whole body, and some of it had to come bursting out -- which meant that he was, in fact, singing by the time he’d slipped into the relatively deserted Barbican Centre and made his way up to the administrative offices on the second floor.   _“Kiss me each morning for a million years…  Hold me each evening by your side…”_

Grimshaw looked up from his desk when Harry knocked, still humming the soulful melody in a low baritone.  He smiled widely and half-stood, gesturing Harry into his office.  “Hello, Harry,” he said warmly.  “Thank you for coming in today.”

“No problem,” Harry smiled.  He took a seat in a leather club chair opposite the desk, his posture loose and relaxed.  “What’s up?”

“Well,” Grimshaw placed both his palms on his desk, tapping them lightly on some papers as he spoke.  He was obviously very excited.  “I didn’t want to let you in on this until it was absolutely finalized, but a little birdie told me…” he leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “you might have gotten an offer from Berlin.”

“Ah, Grimmy,” Harry grinned, voice rumbling out of him.  “Your spy network is showing.”  In fact, the letter had arrived just the day before, an official offer for a long-term, tenured position as the conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic.  It was a dream job, and Harry loved Berlin.  Loved the city.  But he’d left the letter folded up in its envelope, tucked between the cushions of his couch.  He wasn’t sure why he’d stashed it away… maybe he wanted it to be just his, for a while.  (Maybe he didn’t want to think about the ends of things, and the beginnings of others.)  He hadn’t told Louis about it yet.  The board of directors of the Phil weren’t asking for an answer right away -- they knew he still had a month to go in London, and Harry could sense that he wasn’t their second or third-choice candidate.  They’d move mountains to get him to Berlin, whenever he decided to come.   _If I decide to._  At the moment, staying in London seemed infinitely preferable.

“Regardless of whether or not that’s _true,”_ Nick continued, face finally relaxing into a smile, “I just want you to know that despite certain… artistic reservations I might have had at one time, I think this season has been one of the LSO’s best in recent memory.  Ticket sales and donations are up, people are buzzing; you’ve seen the reviews.  I can’t wait to hear what you have in store for your final cycle.”

Harry nodded, letting his dimple show.  “I’m sure your little gumshoes already know the entire program.  But thanks, Nick, that means a lot.”

Grimshaw cleared his throat, shrugging.  “Anyway, Mr. Styles…”  Harry caught a glimpse of his leg wiggling as he tapped his foot nervously under his desk.  “I just wanted to bring you in to let you know, _in person,_ that our board of directors is very seriously considering matching Berlin’s offer.  Now, it’s not set in stone…”  He held up his hands as Harry smiled widely, face nearly splitting in two with enthusiasm. “But I think we can shift the funds around to do it.  I’m making the pitch for you myself, and we’ll take the final vote after we see your third program.”

Harry leapt up from the chair and shook Grimshaw’s hand warmly.  It was exactly the sort of news he’d been hoping for.  “That’s wonderful, Nick.  Tremendous!  I’d… I’d love to stay.   _Love_ to.  I love…  y-you know, London.”  He laughed inanely, and stifled an awkward cough in his throat as Grimmy chuckled.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”  He gently removed his hand from Harry’s eager grasp.  “You understand I can’t give any guarantees, but…”  He raised his eyebrows suggestively.  “Maybe it’s enough for you to keep Berlin hanging?  At least for now.”

Harry nodded with the full force of his excitement.  “Absolutely.  Thanks, Nick.  Thank you!”

“Okay,” Grimshaw checked his watch and stretched, ruffling his high quiff.  “Well, I’m about to knock off for today -- fancy an early lunch?”  He winked cheekily at Harry.  “We could talk about your future career, pass it off as a business thing and order expensive desserts.”

Harry saw the flash of hopefulness in the older man’s eyes and tempered his grin into a polite, platonic smile.  “Sorry, Nick, I’ll have to take a raincheck on that one.  I…  I’ve someone I’ve got to get home to.”

Nick nodded carefully, not letting his face drop.  “Of course, Harry.  Don’t let me keep you waiting.”  He stared after Harry as he went.

The sky was clouding over by the time he trotted out of the Barbican, but Harry didn’t let it affect his mood.  He hadn’t wanted to get ahead of himself, hadn’t wanted to think about the future too much when he was having such a wonderful time in the present.  But now, with one offer wedged into his couch at home and another dangling in thin air in front of him -- one that would let him stay in London, stay _with Louis…_  Harry sighed in utter happiness and decided to splurge on a cab, focusing on nothing except getting back to his flat.

_I’ll tell him when it’s official,_ he thought.   _I’ll take him out somewhere nice, and he’ll hold my hand, and we -- we can make plans._

That last thought sent an electric thrill through his chest.  He could barely sit still in the taxi, bouncing around in his seat all the way up Rosslyn Hill.  When Louis met him at the door, naked and glowing from the shower, Harry wondered whether his life could get any more perfect.

 

Louis crossed his eyes and made a face at Harry as he headed out the door.  He frowned for a few seconds, wondering what Grimshaw could possibly want while he listened to Harry’s steps retreat down the hallway, then shrugged his shoulders and hunched over his cereal bowl.  The corn flakes had gone soggy, but Louis didn’t care.  Not when he had three more reviews to read.

_Brilliant showing by concertmaster Louis Tomlinson…  ...a real find…  ...to think his unique talent has been sitting under our very noses for the past three years, right at the front of the first violin section of the London Symphony Orchestra…_

Louis puffed himself up a bit as he snorted.  “‘S about time, you tossers.”  He couldn’t keep from grinning to himself as he brought the newspapers over with him to the couch, along with a bowl of what he decided to justify as “breakfast dessert:” Honey Loops mixed with Tesco Choco Snaps mixed with Frosties.  The milk was already a muddy brown, and sugar was crusting up the sides of the bowl.

“Perfect,” he sighed, sinking down into Harry’s soft couch cushions and flipping on the telly -- and proceeding to spread out all of his reviews on the coffee table so that he could read them again during commercial breaks.

Louis munched in contented silence for a while, still in too much of a haze of personal achievement to really register the plot of the cartoon he was watching.  His entire body felt relaxed in a way it hadn’t in recent memory.  It wasn’t just a relaxation of his muscles, or the wash of post-orgasm endorphins, it was a _deep_ thing, bone deep.  Louis was completely happy with himself, and with his performance.  The feeling was so foreign, he could barely identify it at first.

_I’m really good,_ he thought, then, smiling so hard he could barely chew.   _People really like me.  They liked what I played.  It was really good._

The simple sentences almost brought tears to his eyes.  Slowly, he sucked some air into his lungs, trying to calm his pounding heart and right his head.  Which is when he almost choked on a Honey Loop.  He thumped his chest a couple of times, mouth frothing and eyes wide with panic, before he finally managed to dislodge the thing.  It rocketed out of his mouth and into the cushions of Harry’s couch.

“Dear _fuck,”_ he gasped, breathing raggedly as he plunked his bowl down on the coffee table.  “Now that would have been sad…”  He almost started giggling at the thought of Death lurking in innocent boxes of Honey Loops before he plunged his hand between the cushions to feel around for the half-masticated bit of stray sugar cereal.

What he came up with was an envelope.

“Huh.  Weird filing system, Hazza…”  Louis frowned, squinting at the return address, which was printed neatly in a distinguished font in the upper left.  (A rather _self-satisfied_ font, Louis thought.)  It had been ripped through a bit when Harry had opened the letter, but Louis had no trouble making out the words.  The Berlin Philharmonic.

“Oh.”

Louis stuffed the envelope back into the couch, deep, all the way under the cushion, and sat on it.  He wasn’t going to read it, of course.  That would be a breach of trust.  And possibly illegal.  Mail-tampering, it was like a gateway crime.  Louis was sure he’d read about it in the Sun.  If he snooped into Harry’s mail now, soon he’d be doing carjackings and committing tax fraud.

The cartoon chattered away in the background, but Louis didn’t hear it.  There was a creeping something in the pit of his stomach -- like a little slug, trying to wiggle its way up into his heart and make him scared.  The longer he sat on the cushion, the closer it got.

_It’s probably just a fundraising thing,_ he reasoned.   _He’s on a mailing list or summat.  Being invited to become a Gold-level patron for only four thousand pounds per year…_

Yes, it was that obvious.  Louis could stop thinking about it, now.  Please.

_… Then why is the letter hiding in the couch?_

Louis set his jaw, crossing his leg over his thigh tightly and staring at the telly.  He’d gotten so used to Harry just _telling_ him everything.  Every insignificant little thought that crossed his mind.  For instance, he’d gone on and on about tumbleweeds at lunch the other day, completely unprompted.  “The tumbleweed,” he’d said, in his slow, deliberate way, “is so symbolic of something negative, an awkward sort of silence, you know… like when you tell a joke, and you mean for people to laugh but they don’t…”  There was a long wait for the end of the sentence.   _Like he’s just trusting me not to make fun of him,_ Louis thought.  “... that it has become more of a concept than a physical thing.  You say ‘tumbleweed,’ and people automatically think, ‘boring.’  ‘Useless.’”  Harry stopped for another dramatic pause, face completely blank.  “And that’s my theory of why it has never caught on as a trend in home décor.”

Louis had burst out laughing then, unable to control himself even though they were in a moderately upscale restaurant, and diners at other tables were turning around to look over at them disapprovingly.

“You,” he’d said, trying to concentrate over an unexpected feeling that was starting to radiate out from the center of his chest, “have the _worst_ theories, Harold.”  But the way he’d said it, he could tell that Harry knew what he meant, could tell that Harry knew he was delighted by him.  Constantly delighted.

He’d murmured into his skin that night, “Beautiful, beautiful… my beautiful boy,” over and over.  Panting against him, shuddering with the all-encompassing sensation of it.  And Harry had said things to him, too.  Things that Louis knew he hadn’t told anyone before, thoughts that he’d kept to himself until now.  Until he’d wanted to see how much they would delight Louis.

_“Do you know that monkeys peel bananas from the bottom?”  “There should be a boy band renaissance.” “Male bats have the highest rate of homosexuality of any mammal, Louis, do you think it’s because they sleep upside down?”  “I reckon lumberjacks are the opposite of vampires.”_

All of that.  All of that nonsense that wasn’t nonsense, not really.  Not when it came from Harry.  An everlasting fucking flood of it.  But not, _“I got a letter from the Berlin Philharmonic today.”_  Nope.  That wasn’t significant or important enough, apparently.   _Or,_ Louis swallowed around a dry lump in his throat, _maybe he simply doesn’t consider it relevant.  For one reason or another._

Louis made an exasperated noise and nearly flung himself off the couch as he burrowed his entire forearm under the cushion, searching for the envelope.  He finally extracted it, covered with crumbs and bits of lint.  Heard the crinkle of paper and plastic as he slid the letter out, guilt unfurling itself in his stomach like a big banner announcing his insecurity.

“I’m a terrible person,” he whispered.  “A complete idiot and a terrible person.”

He unfolded it with shaking fingers.

_Dear Mr. Styles,_

_It is my distinct pleasure to offer you the position of Principal Conductor at the Berlin Philharmonic, with full creative self-determination and a salary of…_

That was all Louis had to read.  He swore viciously and started to fold the letter back up, guilt now mixed with anger that Harry hadn’t told him, hadn’t seen fit to even _mention_ …  And then his eye caught on a handwritten note at the bottom.

_Harry,_

_I can’t wait to see you again.  I hope things in London have gone well for you.  (But Berlin misses you!)_

_Alles Liebe,_

_Florian_

Louis let out a strangled cough.  He wasn’t seeing straight, swirling red dots clouding his vision as he stuffed the letter back into its envelope and down into the couch.  He vaulted to his feet and paced the length of the flat, flexing and extending his fingers, trying to deal with what he was feeling.  Waves crashed into him.  Cars ran him over.

_He’d have told you if he were going to accept the position… right?_

“Right?” Louis demanded, as if Harry’s vacant flat had all the answers and could offer him reassurance.  He thought back to their conversation the week before, when Harry had brought up the Berlin Philharmonic seemingly out of nowhere.  When he’d mentioned Florian Weil.  “That was _not_ him starting to let me down easy,” he informed the empty kitchen.  “He wouldn’t do that.  He’s not sneaky.  He doesn’t fucking… pave the way for things.”

_Oh, God._  Louis felt tears spring up in his eyes.   _No._  He shook his head.  “He must not have decided yet.”

That felt right.  As much as there was a part of Louis that was urging him to give up and sink into a spiral of self-pity and misplaced anger -- an impulse that felt so comfortable and natural, it would be like slipping into a warm bath after a hard day’s work and a walk in the cold -- he knew Harry.  He knew that he was full of genuine feeling, and that when the time came and he made his decision, he wouldn’t beat around the bush.  Wouldn’t lead Louis on about the future.

Louis snorted, collapsing on the couch again, bringing a hand up to his face and letting out a bleak laugh.  Harry probably had ex-boyfriends from here to Los Angeles with whom he’d parted on good terms, who would still speak of him warmly to anyone who asked.  Louis knew _he_ would.  God.  He’d fucking defend Harry’s talent and loveliness forever.

He just wondered if those other ex-boyfriends would ache as much as him.

Louis sighed and got up again, shedding his pajamas on the way to the shower.  He felt uneasy, like he’d just been tossed off a boat into choppy ocean waters and was now clutching a life preserver, trying to tow himself back in.   _Selfish,_ he chided.   _Always selfish._  Harry had a big decision to make, one that would impact his career, his whole life.  And he was clearly dealing with it on his own.

“A good friend would help him,” Louis said, as he turned on the spray and waited for it to heat up.

Louis wanted to help.

Sex.  He could help with sex.  Y _ou get really decent sex in London_ would be a good subliminal message to start imprinting on Harry, Louis decided.   _More than decent… excellent, life-changing sex… bordering on holy fuck I think I just blacked out where are the fucking cigarettes._

When he met Harry naked at the door, still damp, all warm and ready for him, he wondered if it would work.

*

The audience stood to applaud.  Harry Styles bowed for the last time at the Barbican, toes just touching and baton hand clasped in his wrist behind him, Louis watching him like he always watched him.  He couldn’t help it, and he knew by now it was useless to fight himself.  Knew his eyes would always settle on Harry, instinctively looking for cues.

The third concert cycle had gone well.  Harry had chosen to close his run with Berlioz’s _Symphonie Fantastique,_ emphasizing the lightness and sense of mystery in the piece.  It had turned out absolutely lovely, of course -- a little bittersweet, but maybe that was only Louis’s perception of it -- and he could tell that it would play particularly well on television when the BBC aired their performance in a few months.  ( _Doesn’t matter what piece we play, really,_ Louis thought with an unsettled feeling in his chest -- pebbles tumbling down into an abyss, like there was a boulder at the top of a cliff somewhere inside him, barely shifting, about to start an avalanche.   _Harry could make anything special._ )

Louis glanced around at the other musicians as he threaded his way through them, heading backstage to his violin case.  Niall had Zayn’s timpani mallets, and was pretending to bop Gladys on the head with them as Zayn moodily protected his own quiff.  They were laughing, flushed with success and post-concert adrenaline.  Eleanor was chatting with one of the second violins, rolling her eyes and looking every bit the put-together adult.

Louis stared at her enviously.  He felt like his own life was ready to burst apart at the seams.  The concert, Berlioz, all of it was incidental.  Because it was now one month on, and Harry still hadn’t told him about the letter.  He also hadn’t dropped any hints about what he planned to do after his LSO contract was up, and Louis carefully hadn’t asked.  Had just observed Harry purchasing new art for his flat (good sign) and talking about how he’d really love to conduct Mahler’s First Symphony somewhere later this year (bad sign) and was driving himself crazy wondering what it all added up to.  He felt foolish for not asking.  Louis sighed as he wiped Thunder down with a soft rag and zipped him snugly into his case.   _He’s probably wondering why I haven’t said anything.  About us now, and us in the future.  But_ he _hasn’t said anything either, so…_  Louis shrugged.  Clearly their relationship wasn’t serious enough for Harry to be including him in big life decisions, like whether to move out of the country.  At least, Harry didn’t seem to think it was.   _And that’s fine.  I guess that’s fine._  Louis’s hand started shaking, he was so frustrated with himself.

“Tommo,” Niall patted his arm.  Louis looked up, startled, at Niall’s serious expression.

“Horan?” he asked, unsure.  He stood slowly, adjusting his tux jacket and flicking his fringe back.  Unconsciously bracing himself.  “Problem, or...?”

“Yeah, mate.  There is a problem.  A big one.”

Louis felt suddenly and inexplicably like he was about to cry.  He’d just been on that edge for so long, and now the boulder in his chest wobbled dangerously as he stared at Niall.

“You realize you haven’t got proper wasted with me in, well -- about _forever.”_

Louis was so relieved he had to laugh, which caused Niall to look even more put out, which caused Louis to laugh again, this time at his hilarious fake-wounded expression.  He slung his arm around Niall’s shoulder as he led them both to the secure instruments storage facility.  “Here’s the plan, Nialler.  We go to the afterparty, waltz up to the bar and demand their largest, most complicated, colorful-est cocktails, _with_ umbrellas…”

Niall nodded.  “Right, right.”

“... and swirly straws. And we’ll carry them around acting as though we’re just having our usual scotch on the rocks.  Completely straight-faced.”

“I think I understand you so far.”  Niall was completely serious about following through, of course, always one hundred percent committed to everything and determined to have the most fun.

Louis couldn’t help it; he squeezed his shoulders tighter and pulled him in for a quick kiss to the temple.  “That’s m’boy.”

“I’m getting jealous over here.”

Louis swung them around, instrument cases accidentally clacking together.  Harry was eyeing the pair of them from across the hallway, leaning casually against the wall with his tuxedo jacket over one arm.  He looked like a GQ ad, and was absolutely trying to.  Louis immediately gave him his most sultry stare and purposefully leaned into Niall, getting very close to his ear as he whispered, but never taking his eyes off Harry.

“... And whoever can stick the most cocktail umbrellas in Harold’s ridiculous huge curly head without him noticing is the winner.”

Niall cackled a laugh and gave Louis a swat on the bum, muttering something that sounded like “fookin’ genius” as he walked away.

“Hey, love,” Louis said softly, as soon as Niall was out of earshot.

A sweet smile blossomed on Harry’s face, both dimples coming to life as he walked over to Louis and gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek.   _“You_ were wonderful, as always.”

“Shut it,” Louis said, huffing and completely pleased with himself.

“Are you going to be taking up with Niall, then?  I won’t tie you down, Louis; I only care about your happiness.”

Louis snorted, stepping lightly away from Harry as two of the double bass players rounded the corner, lugging their enormous instruments to the storage facility.  He knew Harry was only joking, but it really didn’t take much these days for it to sting.  “Been thinking about it,” he nodded.  “Been considering it.  Blond, and all that.  Plus, you know.  The exotic Irish accent.  So seductive.”

Harry threw his head back and laughed, cheeks flushing with pleasure as Louis darted into storage to make sure Thunder was put away properly.  He was still chuckling when Louis reappeared, face round and soft, his eyes sparkling.  He looked so young, sometimes.  Louis loved it when it looked like fifteen-year-old Harry Styles was laughing back at him… like he’d made that version of Harry happy, finally.

“You’ll have to fight Gladys for him, though,” Harry said, placing a light hand on Louis’s back as he guided him out toward the lobby.  “And, while you are _right_ fit…”

“ _‘Don’t fancy your chances, Tommo,’_ ” Louis said, imitating Harry’s slow, dry delivery.  “Yeah, you don’t have to spell it out, Styles.”

“She would dominate you.”

“Fuck off!”

They walked together the few blocks to St. Luke’s, shoulders bumping occasionally as they enjoyed the warm, clear air of the evening.  There were even a few stars visible through the light pollution, and soft shades of tungsten mixed with harsher fluorescence in the reflection of glass windows on Whitecross Street.  Laughter spilled out of little all-night shops; tradesmen smoked on a corner and spoke softly to each other in gravelly voices over the tips of their glowing cigarettes.  Women sat out on fairy-lit balconies sharing bottles of wine.  H _ow could anyone even think about leaving London, once they’ve lived here?_ Louis thought.

“Well,” said Harry, putting a hand on his elbow as they crossed the courtyard in front of the church.  Louis leaned into it, savoring the brief touch and at the same time aching for more.  It seemed important, right then.  Just a little bit more, just one more second of physical contact before they had to go in and join the party.   _Stay with me,_ Louis thought.  But,

“You go have your fun with Niall,” Harry said, smiling.  “I promised Grimshaw I’d do the rounds with him.”  He took his hand away.  Louis watched as he melted into the party.  Going to charm all of those lovely, rich people with their jewels and their black bowties and their enthusiasm for the season of music he’d put together.

_I’ll go have fun with Niall.  You go bask._

“You’ve earned it, beautiful boy.”

Louis shook off the odd, bittersweet feeling that still lingered in his arms from _Symphonie Fantastique,_ and made his way toward the bar.  He stopped short with a snort of laughter at the sight of Niall sucking down a red-and-yellow blended margarita with a lime slice speared on a tiny red sword and two cocktail umbrellas.

“I love you,” he said, ruffling Niall’s hair and pressing his belly up to the edge of the bar.  “Something absurd-looking,” he demanded, tapping a bartender on the shoulder, “preferably bright blue with lots of fruit and umbrellas, please!”

The bartender gave him a tight smile and set to work.

Forty minutes later, Louis was stalking Harry with blue-stained lips and alcohol fizzing through his veins, first of three cocktail umbrellas in hand.  “Now I’m the wolf,” he giggled to himself, ducking around confused-looking orchestra patrons as he searched the crowd for his prey.  “And Harry’s Peter.”  He stifled another naughty giggle with the back of his hand.   _Harry’s peter…_  He started to hum the threatening French horn theme.  He was tipsy and a little horny -- had made himself half-hard fantasizing about dragging Harry off to the hidden toilets near his office and ordering him to demonstrate how he’d wanked that first night, right before he’d met Louis out front with the cab.   _“Fuck, Louis.”_  He could just hear Harry’s voice, shocked and immediately turned on.  He was going to do it, Louis decided.  He was fucking doing it, just as soon as…

“The Berlin Philharmonic.”

“Oh, really?”

Louis stiffened.  He quickly palmed the cocktail umbrella and pulled his phone out, pretending he’d just gotten a text.  Amelia Frasier-Lind and Taggie Diversey were talking quietly next to him, having sequestered themselves behind a large potted fern.

“Yes, he spent about a year in Berlin, apparently, earlier in his career.  Before he began conducting.  Unless I’m wrong and it was…”  Louis kept his head down, but he could almost hear Amelia pursing her lips.  “Well, either way, he knows the town.”

_“And_ the musicians,” Taggie giggled.  “The Berlin Philharmonic, oh dear.  That doesn’t surprise me, not remotely.”

“Why?” Amelia asked, clearly annoyed that she hadn’t been privy to whatever piece of gossip Taggie had gotten her hands on.  Conversely, Taggie was obviously enjoying being the one in the know.

“Oh, I’m sure you heard about it.”

Louis rolled his eyes.   _Just spit it out, Agatha, before we all have heart attacks and die._

“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about…”  Now there was a poisonous edge to Amelia’s voice, one that indicated she was watching the expression on Taggie’s face and smelling a sex scandal.

“Florian Weil,” Taggie said, in little more than a whisper.  “The violinist.  They apparently got _very_ close, and still are.  I bet Florian’s been begging their board of directors to offer Harry a permanent position for quite a while now.”

All the hair on the back of Louis’s neck stood up.  Amelia giggled a little into her drink, which made Louis irrationally want to smack her.  “Are you implying…”

Taggie must have done some sort of gesture, because they both burst out into muted laughter, the kind where you’re laughing at a joke you don’t want other people to find out you laughed at.  Louis closed his left hand into a fist, flexing his bicep and worrying his lower lip.  The bottom was dropping out of his stomach.  It was falling away.  The boulder had tumbled off the cliff and there was nothing to do but get swept away in the avalanche of emotion.

“So it’s certain, then?” Amelia asked.  “Styles is going to Berlin?”

“From what I’ve heard, he just accepted the position.  It’s a done deal, more’s the pity.  I wish we could have kept him.”

Louis’s head was spinning.   _Wish we could have kept him.  We._  He planted his three cocktail umbrellas carefully in the potted fern and turned on his heel, vision blurring as he walked toward the exit.  He suddenly felt sick, even though he’d only had two drinks, and willed himself not to throw up on the spot.  To just keep walking.  There would be fresh air outside.

_We._  Like Taggie Diversey had just as much of a claim on Harry Styles as Louis did.   _We._  Like Louis had no more influence than any other person in London, like he was just some colleague, or some rich patron of the arts.  His stomach turned, and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Louis?”

He whipped around.  Harry was there, two feet away with a drink in his hand.  “Are you okay?”

If he was that concerned, Louis must look like shit.  Blue-rimmed mouth and red eyes and _fuck_.  “I have to go home,” he said, in a clipped voice.  “I don’t feel good.”

“Are you sick?  Are you…”  Harry glanced around wildly, moving to step forward, but Louis held up a hand.

“Sorry, I just have to go home right now.”

“Go back to my place,” Harry insisted, fumbling for keys in his pocket.  “Get comfy and tuck yourself in and I’ll leave as soon as I can…”

“Need my own bed,” Louis choked out, barely breathing.  “G’night.”

He pushed through the doors and out into the cool London air, not looking back to see if Harry was following him.  Couldn’t stand the thought of walking to the tube, equally couldn’t stand the thought of taking a taxi, not after he’d just been thinking about…  about…  That night.  Harry’s hand on his thigh.

Louis felt tears spring up in his eyes as he turned toward Barbican Station.  He’d be another sad bloke on a platform, then.  Because Harry was leaving him.   _And Amelia fucking Frasier-Lind knew before I did.  Taggie fucking Diversey found out at the same time._  They had no idea, Louis thought.  No idea what they were talking about, what it meant.  He walked faster, deaf and blind to the lovely evening he’d been enjoying so much just an hour before.

It felt like a long train ride.  But it also felt like Louis blinked, and he was home.

He keyed open his front door and stepped inside.  His house smelled stale.  Louis realized with a wracking sense of pain that he’d only spent one or two nights here in the last month, mostly rushing back in the middle of the day to grab clothing and quick showers.  He’d eaten no meals here.  (How had he fed himself before Harry?)  Flipping on the lights and walking through his living room was a surreal experience.   Louis felt a little like Rip Van Winkle.  There was a dirty sock that had first been dirtied six weeks ago, lying half-forgotten in the shadow of the couch.  There was that plant his mother had bought him, shriveled and brown, frail cobwebs over its corpse.  Stale cereal in boxes in the kitchen.  Congealed milk at the bottom of dirty glasses.  Mugs stained with old tea.  Everything was hollow and old and used-up.

_Me, too._

It felt like the ghosts had moved in.

Louis trudged upstairs and threw himself into bed, wondering when he’d last laundered the sheets.  They were cold, and the texture was unfamiliar to his skin.  As he drifted off to sleep, Louis wondered how a bed he’d always slept in alone could suddenly feel so very, very empty.

 

Harry got to work cleaning out his office at St. Luke’s first.  He’d have preferred it the other way around, but he had meetings with board members tomorrow and the day after to discuss his tenure, and his office at the Barbican had less of what Niall referred to as “an aroma.”  Plus the chairs there were supposedly more comfortable.  Harry thought that was up for debate, but he knew it was better to host people there, really; it was more dignified.

“I _like_ the smell here,” he grumbled to himself as he halfheartedly cleaned out his desk drawers.  “It’s not _that_ bad anymore, anyway.”

The room had been slightly less stuffy ever since he and Louis had begun to use it for the occasional sexual encounter.  Harry always cracked the stupid little window afterward to air it out.  Somehow, the atmosphere around the desk still seemed to be made up of thirty percent chalk dust.

Harry chuckled, shutting his empty desk drawer.  About two weeks before, Louis had chased him around his desk while laughing maniacally and clapping both of the blackboard erasers together.  That was probably why.  Harry’d gotten Louis to stop by dropping down into the chair suddenly on a pass around the desk and then pulling him quickly onto his lap.  They’d had to air the office out about fifteen minutes later, but the cloud of chalk dust stubbornly remained.  

He moved on to clearing the books off the shelves next, haphazardly throwing them into a large cardboard box he’d managed to scrounge up.  Harry frowned down at it, realizing he’d never get it home on the tube.  The idea of cramming everything into a cab seemed like such a pain; maybe he could get Niall to drive him home in the Astra.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, pausing for a minute to look around and try to get a gauge on how much work he still had left to do.  It was a depressingly large amount.  Enough that he felt like quitting altogether instead of actually making a real start at it.  It fascinated him how much stuff he’d managed to accumulate in the room over the past two and half months without even realizing it.  He couldn’t remember ever having brought more than a small box of books at a time, but now they were everywhere, some even on the floor, stacked up next to piles of his tatty old spiral notebooks.  There were four plants along the windowsill, all in varying states of decay, only three of which he could remember purchasing.  Louis teased him about them on a daily basis, was always telling him he should have gotten a cactus instead.

_Louis._  Harry missed him a ridiculous amount for having only spent a single night apart.  He sighed, suddenly sentimental. _You miserable sap,_ he thought.  This office was so much more homey than the one at the Barbican though; so much more had happened there.  Harry didn’t want to leave it, not yet, but he’d be packing it up even if the offer from the LSO did come through.  The St. Luke’s renovations were nearly finished and Liam had a fancier office all lined up for him.

“It’s got windows, mate!  Windows!  Plural!” Liam had said after their final performance the night before.  He was clearly proud of himself.  Harry hadn’t had the heart to turn him down, especially since Liam’s confidence that he would eventually need the office had buoyed his spirits.  

“At least I barely have to clean you out, old chap,” he said aloud, patting the rusty filing cabinet next to him with an air of resignation.  Harry put an elbow on it and leaned against it, heaving another sigh. All he’d ever put in it were the scores to Peter and the Wolf, which he’d been too lazy to take back to the library after the children’s concert.  He’d never managed to get the bottom drawer open.

“Still wonder what’s in there,” he muttered, glaring down at the obstinately jammed handle.  He decided to try it one last time as a way of avoiding the real work of packing up, and leaned down, giving it several violent tugs to no avail.

“Clearly not…  Stupid drawer,” he said, standing up again and turning away from the cabinet.  He crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes to look around the office for some kind of implement he could use as a lever to pry the damned thing open once and for all.  Obviously there was absolutely nothing of the sort available.  Visible on his desk he had a stapler, several hundred paperclips in an ugly cup, six or seven bulldog clips of various sizes, and three biros.

“Perfect,” Harry mumbled, rolling his eyes.  He slammed the heel of his boot back against the base of the filing cabinet in frustration.

That’s when the drawer finally popped opened, of course.  It made a satisfying little sproinging noise and slid out easily on its tracks, bumping Harry gently on the back of the calf.  Harry blinked down at it for several seconds in disbelief before he made an embarrassingly eager fluttering motion with his fingers and bent over to see what was inside.

“Fucking _finally,”_ he murmured as he pulled a thick stack of what appeared to be someone’s compositions out of the drawer and plopped down cross-legged on the floor, settling in to look through it.

He expected it to be mostly boring, whatever it was.  He felt a little bit like he was fourteen again, just getting around to tidying up his room like his mum had asked, only to be waylaid by finding a notebook under his bed with a bunch of embarrassing, nonsensical stories that he’d written ages ago (way back when he was ten), all thoughts of cleaning long forgotten.  Even though he felt like that, he still expected the secret treasure of the stupid cabinet drawer to ultimately reveal itself to be a bore.  That’s just the way things went.

Only that didn’t happen.  Not at all.  This music wasn’t a bore in the slightest.  In fact, it was the opposite.

At first he was unsure what he was looking at, but as he leafed through the sheets of paper he quickly realized it was the beginning of a string quartet.  The first movement, actually, done in classical sonata form.  Harry read through the music with a finger skimming over the notes of first violin part, picking up soft pencil lead as he tracked the melody, smudging it ever so slightly.  His heart started to race as he pored over the pages of composition, draft by draft, completely engrossed as he watched the developing piece of music become more and more refined.

Even in its earliest renditions, Harry could see the enormous potential of the initial themes and already had a firm grasp on the tenuously hopeful emotional viewpoint of the work.  By the time he reached the final version, he felt a little like genius was being uncovered right in front of his eyes.  He was surrounded by sheet music on all sides, graphite smeared across his sweat-dampened brow, mouth open in a sort of breathless awe.

The piece was still a bit rough around the edges (the second theme needed strengthening, and the viola part could use a couple of adjustments), but the overall structure, the texture and the feel of it!  It fascinated Harry and reminded him of something a favorite teacher had once said, years ago, about how great stories seem to unfold in a way that makes everything that happens feel both inevitable and like a small revelation all at once.  That’s how this composition felt to Harry.  Like a minor, inevitable revelation, a truly great story in musical form.  It made him wish he wasn’t just building the sounds in his mind, that it was actually being performed for him right there in his office instead.  His brain felt hungry for it.  

He’d had a growing suspicion since seeing an illegible scribble of notes in the margins of a later draft, an inkling of an idea that made his heart pound and his fingers twitch with adrenalized excitement.  The hunch was reinforced by the personality of the initially established themes and by the disciplined and complex emotionality of their reintroduction in the final third of the work.

“Oh _Louis,”_ he murmured in a moan, laughing wetly and shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the bottom of the last page of the composition.  “Louis, Louis, Louis.”

There in soft grey pencil was a hastily written note, this time unmistakably done in Louis’s cramped, slanting script.  _You can do better_ was all it said.

“But it’s wonderful, darling,” Harry murmured, continuing to laugh with rueful affection.  Fat, emotional tears clouded up his vision as he slumped back against his desk.  “No need to worry.”

He thought back to that first day, Louis’s hot blue stare after he’d violently erased everything on the blackboard.  And much later, the way he’d successfully distracted Harry from trying to open the cabinet drawer.  He wanted to find Louis and kiss his face and hold his hand and most of all he wanted to tell him how incredibly talented he was over and over again until he made Louis understand that he deserved it.

Harry sighed, heavy with the knowledge that that was probably not how the scene would play out at all.  He felt like he had so much love for Louis inside of him, though, to the point where it seemed like his heart might rupture in his chest if didn’t express it in some way.

He groped around on his desk for a pad of paper and a pen, resolving to write Louis some notes on his work, absolutely desperate to encourage him to go on.  
“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry said, shaking his head in disbelieving wonder as he began to write, as though he were trying to convince himself that Louis was real.  “Oh, help me, Louis.  I really love you.” 

 

Louis was still mildly disheveled when he finally got it together to drag himself to the Barbican for sectional that afternoon.  He felt like he hadn’t quite woken up.  It had been a long night and he’d had fitful sleep at best, couldn’t shake off the sickly, undercooked feeling that comes with being overtired.  He kept rubbing at his eyes under his glasses as he entered the building.  The bleariness never went away.

“Mr. Tomlinson!  Mr. Tomlinson.”

Louis winced; loud noises were making his skin hurt, even though he wasn’t actually hungover.   _Just sad as fuck._  He swallowed over his self pity and turned his head, brow furrowed, seeing exactly what he’d expected to when he’d heard that voice -- Margery from the post room barrelling toward him from across the lobby, her cart full of interoffice envelopes trundling before her.  

“Mmm?” Louis said, transferring Thunder to his left hand and running the back of his thumb across his forehead as she approached.

This would never have happened on a normal day.  Louis usually made a beeline through the lobby, walking so quickly Margery could never catch him.   _That’s what you get, you trudge-y loser._

“Mr. Tomlinson, your mailbox is absolutely overflowing,” she said as she rolled to a stop, the disapproval clear in her voice.  “It’s worse than Mr. Horan’s.”

Louis sighed and glanced down at his wristwatch.  He’d somehow made it in a couple of minutes early, despite himself.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, pinching at the bridge of his nose under his glasses.  “I’ll go deal with it.”

He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to accumulate so much post over a concert weekend, but Margery was the only person in the building that Niall had an even somewhat frosty relationship with and Louis didn’t want to get on her bad side.  So he shuffled off down to the basement to check his pigeon hole.

Even standing clear across the post room, Louis could see what his little cubby was full of.  He knew it right away.  He recognized the battered, pencil-smudged bottoms of the pages sticking out, the thickness of the stack of paper immediately familiar.  He’d have known it anywhere.  For a moment it felt like his body was walking over to the mailbox without him in it, having left his pathetic, splintering soul behind to observe from the doorway.  

His composition.  Harry had found his composition.

Louis laughed bleakly.  Of course, after all this time, Harry would have found his composition.  Harry, who was leaving him for fucking Berlin.  Wasn’t that just the way of it?  He tugged the familiar sheaf of music out of the mailbox with shaking hands, his heart rabbiting in his chest.  He was barely able to look.  

There was a note on top of the first page, written on a small, pale pink piece of paper, tucked under the oversized bulldog clip that was holding the stack of music together.  Louis was desperate not to look at it, but of course he couldn’t actually get himself to physically resist.

_Louis - Didn’t realize this was yours til the final draft.  V. impressed.  Included some notes.  Hope that’s okay.  Let’s talk?  Love, H. xx_

It was then that Louis felt the notes that Harry had clipped onto the bottom of the sheaf, smaller by half than the rest of the sheets, probably on that same pale pink paper.  He closed his eyes against the sting of tears, running his fingers over their crumpled edges.

“Talk about it when, H?  Before or after you leave the country?” Louis muttered.  He’d intended for it to come out with a bitter edge, but it just ended up sounding pitiful.

This was a nightmare that just kept getting worse and worse.  Louis felt so completely, painfully exposed.  Like he was just barely holding it together and any second he was going start sobbing until he threw his heart up onto the disgusting linoleum floor.

The worst part was that while Louis would rather have drowned to death in three inches of water than read Harry’s notes, he was self-aware enough to know why.  His aversion to doing so stemmed from the fact that he valued Harry’s opinion so very much.  Louis was desperately, profoundly concerned with knowing what Harry thought of his work, and that was why he couldn’t even think of bringing himself to find out.

No matter the result, whether Harry’s responses were glowing or if he damned Louis with faint praise, reading them would break him.  Either way Louis would be left, stripped bare and all alone.  Because Harry was going to Berlin.  Harry was leaving and he hadn’t told him.

_Yet._   Louis’s heart clenched painfully as he pictured himself struggling through that coming conversation.  Harry would have to tell him sometime, right?  Now that the decision had been made.

"Yeah, Harry, let's talk," he whispered with a bleak laugh, this time letting bitterness creep in.

Louis kept standing in front of his pigeon hole, eyes screwed shut, petting the edges of the notes beneath the music and trying not to cry.   _I made myself so vulnerable to him,_ he thought, his hands shifting and closing like twin clamps over the sides of the composition.   _So fucking vulnerable.  I let it get to this point._

Louis couldn’t see a way around it, was the thing.  Couldn’t see how the outcome could have been any different.  Right from the start, even when he’d been telling himself he was still in control, it was inevitable he’d end up this way, vulnerable to Harry to the greatest extent.  In miserable, bloody love with him, if he was honest.  The second Louis had seen Harry in that stupid, cramped little office conducting his music right off the chalkboard, that very second, he’d started this inexorable march toward heartbreak.  

_“Fuck,”_ he muttered, glancing at his watch.  He was definitely late for sectional now.

He took a deep breath and shoved the stack of music into his satchel, hurrying out of the post room and scrambling up the stairs to the large second floor conference room where the first violins were meeting.  Eleanor had already gotten things underway by the time he got there.  She arched a brow at him as he took her place at the front of the room.

“Right.  Well,” he said, setting his belongings on the table and trying to catch his breath.  “Sorry I’m late. Got -- got caught up in something.”  

He shoved a hand into his hair and looked out at them, squirming slightly under the many sets of appraising eyeballs.  He’d taken a shower before he came, but he felt unattractive and greasy anyway, like his curdled emotions had oozed out of his pores and spread over his skin in the meantime.  Like they could all see it on him, a filmy layer of sadness and shame.   _Get a grip._

“So,” Louis said, hoarsely.  He shook his head slightly and cleared his throat, fishing his performance notes out of his bag.  His heart clenched at the sight of his composition, Harry’s pale pink paper.   _Get a grip, right now._  “Great concert overall, everyone.  Congratulations.  Just a few things I wanted to go over...”

He wrapped up relatively early, about forty-five minutes later.  He just wanted to get the hell out of there even though he didn’t have anywhere else he wanted to go.

“Nice of you to actually show up,” Eleanor said, bitingly.  Louis knew that she had taken her time packing up, and waited until everyone else had filed out of the room just so she could say it.

Louis rolled his eyes.  “Just leave it, okay?  It was five minutes, for crying out loud.”

Eleanor looked him up and down in a calculating way, her eyes narrowed with distaste.  “It was really more like ten or fifteen, Louis.  Some of us could have spent that extra time practicing, had we known.”  She shook her head and gave a humorless laugh.  “Not that you’ve been too interested in that lately, have you?”  

Louis’s jaw dropped slightly in shock.  All he could do was blink stupidly, gawking at her.

“Am I wrong?” she asked, not a trace of shame or remorse in her voice or on her face, the arch back in her brow.

Louis crossed his arms over his chest, anger and adrenaline pumping through his veins.  He shook his head in an almost imperceptible way.  That was all he was giving her.

She shrugged, turned on her heel and fucking flounced out the door, letting it snick shut behind her.

Louis sank down into a chair as soon as she was gone, feeling like the room was spinning around him and caving in on him at the same time. The anger coursing through his veins, making his heartbeat hammer in his temples, was directed entirely at himself.

Eleanor was right.  She was absolutely, one hundred percent correct.  Louis was slipping.  That was truth.  It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that his normal practice schedule had been almost halved over the past couple of months.  He still played every day, but not nearly as many hours and definitely not with the same unwavering focus.  How could he?  How could he possibly focus when Harry Styles was always on his mind?  Harry’s face and eyes.  Harry’s hands.  Harry’s hands on Louis’s body.  Harry’s voice.  All the different ways he laughed.  The way he made Louis fucking feel.  He was always there.  Harry followed Louis everywhere.

Louis blinked down at his hands, barely recognizing them as his own.  He felt like he was disassociating again, that same feeling from the post room door an hour or so before, except this time his consciousness was floating away while his body stayed put.

How had he let things get so out of control?  How had he let it get to this point?  He had allowed Harry Styles to overshadow everything else in his life, and for what?  For what?  Louis could lose his place as concertmaster of the LSO and Harry fucking Styles would be in Berlin conducting up a storm with Florian Weil right beside him.

Louis was losing himself, his discipline, concentration, and dedication.  He’d been swept up by Harry, by reckless hope, and some fundamental parts of who he was had been washed away in the process.

He lurched to his feet feeling dizzy and unmoored, yanking at the neck of his jumper.  A numbness settled over him as he gathered up his things and tried to shut his mind off, tried to order his heart to stop aching.  The thought of going back to his dark, empty flat was devastating, but he had to accept it.  That was how it was going to be.  Harry was going to go to Berlin and Louis was going to have to get his life back in order.  Back under control.  Louis just had to get used to it.  

He didn’t trudge this time, when he crossed the lobby of the Barbican.  He moved with efficient purpose, head down, determined to exit the building as quickly as possible without interacting with anyone at all.  

He almost had a hand on the door, inches from freedom, when they stopped him.

“Tomlinson!”

He thought about ignoring it for a split second, thought about pretending he hadn’t heard and making a mad dash across the terrace, not pausing to breathe until he reached the tube.  But he hesitated a touch too long and the voice came again, this time much closer.

At least it wasn’t Harry.

“Tomlinson?”

Louis turned around slowly, sighing in resignation.  It was Dennis Turner, chairman of the LSO Board of Directors, with a cluster of other white-haired old men who served alongside him.  Nick Grimshaw and Liam Payne were trailing behind them.

“Yes?” he said, adjusting Thunder’s shoulder strap, tucking the violin and his satchel behind his back before fixing the position of his glasses on his face.

“May we have a word, please?” Turner asked, taking Louis’s elbow and ushering him away from the doors, back into the lobby.

“What about?”

Louis was normally quite good with the orchestra bigwigs, schmoozing and charming them, putting them at ease with the unshowy mastery of his playing.  He didn’t know how he could possibly put anybody at ease at the moment, though, not when he seemed to be made up entirely of flop sweat and emotional difficulties.  The men were standing in a semicircle around Louis now, watching him closely.  They didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, first of all, congratulations on another excellent series of performances, Mr. Tomlinson.  You do the LSO proud, as always,” Turner intoned.

“Thank you,” Louis said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“We’d like to get your opinion on something though, a bit of a delicate matter.” 

“Oh?”

Turner leaned in.  “To do with some budgetary concerns…”

Louis nodded, unsure where this was leading and mildly distracted by the way Grimshaw was fidgeting at the edge of the circle, clearly trying to catch his eye.

“We’ve got a big decision coming up about how to allocate some important funds,” Dennis said, his meaty hand still at Louis’s elbow.  “And, you being concertmaster, we were just wondering how you feel about Harry Styles in terms of a long-term commitment with the orchestra.”

_Long-term commitment._  Louis couldn’t help the joyless chuckle that came out of him at that.  He saw Grimshaw’s hands tightening into fists at the periphery of his vision. 

Turner raised a tufty grey eyebrow at Louis’s response.  “I’m sure you’re aware, Louis, that we’ve yet to name a new permanent conductor since Valery’s departure.”

Louis nodded, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose again and feeling increasingly uncomfortable and scrutinized.

“Can I take your reaction as an indication of how you feel about your working relationship with Mr. Styles?  Do you feel that he isn’t a good fit for the LSO?”

Louis blinked in surprise, taking a moment to scan over the faces of the men in front of him.  They’d all leaned in toward him, intent looks in their eyes, like they were hanging on Louis’s words.

_What does it matter what I think?_ Louis wondered, his mind racing miserably.  A flare of frustrated anger ignited inside him.   _What does it matter when Harry’s going to Berlin, anyway?  Even if he stayed…  He’s just a terrible distraction.  Out of control.  I can’t live like this anymore._

Just before he answered, Louis met Nick Grimshaw’s pleading eyes.  He quickly looked away.  

“No,” Louis said, turning back to Dennis Turner.  His tone was as firm and cold as he could muster.  “No.  I don’t think he’s a good fit for the orchestra.”

He saw Grimshaw’s posture collapse in disappointment as soon as he’d spoken.  The men from the board started talking over one another all at once, the buzz of multiple arguments echoing through the lobby.     

“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Tomlinson,” Turner said, looking right into Louis’s eyes.  “We appreciate it, more than I can say.”  

Louis felt a strange, sinking feeling come over him as Turner shook his hand, a knot of guilty dread forming deep in his guts. 

“Is that all?” he asked, weakly.  He’d been teetering on the verge of tears for what felt like the whole day, and the situation was only getting more precarious.  The lobby suddenly felt cavernous, Louis impossibly small inside it and getting smaller with every passing second.  He wasn’t sure what he’d just done. 

Dennis nodded, patting him on the back with a smile.  “Sorry for delaying you; we know you musicians lead busy lives.  I hope we didn’t keep you from practice.”

Louis shook his head.

“Have a nice night, Louis.” 

Louis nodded, watching as they all drifted across the lobby, deep in conversation.  Grimshaw looked back at him over his shoulder.  He shook his head, eyes as cold as ice.

_What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, that's it folks! Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Haha, just kidding. I have a collection of comforting gifs ready for those who need to be comforted in the comments section. Seriously, thank you so much for your feedback and kudos and love.
> 
> The song Harry sings to himself when he's walking into the Barbican is [Then You Can Tell Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tdf094DTdaQ&list=PLTxxBGawMErZltiz0UfxHoEDW-FIBj_lT). The Bettye Swann cover (aka the best version) is on his Forgotten Classics of American R&B playlist, which you will find on Youtube if you click that link. You'll never listen to the Steve Miller Band cover of Jet Airliner ever again.
> 
> And here is [Symphonie Fantastique](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DWjI1uLSzw).


	9. Chapter 9

Harry stayed fairly late at the Barbican that evening, typing up some notes on the final performance cycle on his laptop until the room went dark around him.  He frowned down at his phone after he’d finished up, checking for new messages as he grabbed his bag and skirted around his desk to get to the door.  He was hoping for one from Louis, since he’d texted him hours back to see if he was feeling better from the night before.  But there was only an enthusiastic message from Niall, agreeing to help him take all his boxes home from St. Luke’s the next day in exchange for beer.

**Sure mate!!! :) Pints!!!!!!!!!!!!**

Nothing from Louis at all.

Harry sighed deeply as he stepped out onto the deserted mezzanine and shut his office door, pushing down a creeping sense of unease.  It wasn’t like Louis to ignore his texts.

“Must still not be feeling well, is all...” he muttered to himself, jiggling the handle to be sure the door had locked behind him.

His mind drifted back to the composition he’d left in Louis’s pigeon hole that afternoon.  He hoped he hadn’t overstepped and made Louis uncomfortable by looking through it.  He was completely lost in thought as he turned to head for the stairs, where he nearly collided with an oncoming Liam Payne.

“Whoa, Maestro!” Liam said, steadying Harry with a hand on his forearm.  He’d been moving at a fairly good clip and Harry’d had to lurch to the side to avoid him, teetering back on his heels.  “Didn’t see you there. Sorry ‘bout that!”

“Where’s the fire, Payne?” Harry asked with a chuckle, once he’d regained his balance.  He felt a bit like a dorky dad as soon as the words came out.

Liam didn’t seem to mind, just shook his head in exasperation and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair before he started to speak.  “It's this never ending board meeting,” he said, motioning over his shoulder in the general direction of the administrative offices with a roll of his eyes.  “Grimshaw’s just sent me to collect some documents he forgot in his office.”  He glanced down at his watch.  “I doubt we’ll be getting out of here before ten o’clock.”

Harry nodded, his pulse shooting up a little at the mention of the meeting.  He knew they’d be making a decision on his offer any day now, were probably making it right now.  Extended debate didn’t make him feel exactly confident things would go in his favor.

Shame washed over Harry as he shifted awkwardly in front of Liam, scuffing the toe of one of his boots on the soft red carpet of the mezzanine floor.  He knew his worry wasn’t tied entirely to the outcome of the decision, it was that the decision was being made at all. _I have to talk to Louis either way,_ Harry thought, wincing internally at his insecurity and at the vague dread the idea of such a conversation filled him with.   _Should have fucking talked to him already.  Weeks ago.  Weeks ago..._  He’d been using the delay as an avoidance tactic for over a month and he couldn’t lie to himself about it anymore.   

Liam must have been able to tell that Harry was wondering which way the wind was blowing, because he leaned forward in that slightly overeager manner he had, clearly about to say something confidential.  “It’s unbelievable it’s taken them this long to decide,” he whispered, rolling his eyes again.  His expression darkened and he angled his body even further toward Harry’s, gossip glinting in his eye.  “And just between you and me, if it _doesn’t_ end up coming through...” he looked from side to side to make sure they were alone before he went on, voice lower than ever, “I bet it’s all down to Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry’s head jerked back in surprised confusion, adrenaline coursing quickly through his veins like hot poison.

“What?” he managed to choke out, his heart beating fiercely against his ribcage.  

“Yeah,” Liam nodded, pursing his lips in annoyance before going on.  “So, Turner stops him in the lobby this afternoon and asks for his opinion, if he thinks you’d be a good fit for the LSO.  And Tomlinson says no...  He says no!”  Liam widened his eyes in disbelief at Louis’s gall as he spoke, shaking his head slowly from side to side.  “I thought Grimshaw was going to throttle him.”

Harry made a soft sound of distress, biting down hard on his bottom lip to suppress it.  He blinked at Liam rapidly, too stunned to do anything else.   _I don’t understand.  I don’t understand._  He felt bewildered and distraught almost to the point of disorientation, concussed by it.  His brain was made of cotton and there was a strange, looping ringing in his ears.

This had to be a mistake.  It had to be.  Just a misunderstanding.   _Louis wouldn’t,_ Harry thought.  He felt a nauseous tug at the back of his throat as the tang of something sickly and metallic flooded into his mouth, his heart a ball of pain inside his chest.   _Why would he?  Why?_

“And after you gave him the gift of that Dvořák!” Liam whispered in distaste.

Harry brought a shaking hand up to his brow and let out a long sigh, staring straight ahead.  He couldn’t get a handle on this, couldn’t comprehend it all the way.  He was still dazed by it, his mind a distant thing, nervous system in revolt. A cold sweat had broken out over his body.  

Liam looked as though he was feeling increasingly wrong-footed the longer Harry stood silent.  Obviously he’d been expecting a bit of shared complaining about Louis’s ridiculous arrogance, some bonding over it, perhaps.  Probably anyone would have expected a verbal response of some sort.   _Particularly being so incredibly unaware of the fact that Louis Tomlinson holds my pathetic heart in the palm of his hand._

“I, uh --” Harry said, still struggling and failing to pull it together.  “I --”

He needed to save this from being a disaster.  He most certainly didn’t want Liam Payne figuring it all out.  Reading it off him.  Not now.  God, _especially_ not now.  Not if...  

But.

_He wouldn’t.  I know him.  Don’t I know him?  He wouldn’t...  How_ could _he?  I can’t believe he would.  I can’t!_

Harry took a shaky breath.  He still felt so helplessly protective of Louis, was so deeply, hopelessly in love with him, that despite the fact that this might be the end of the world, he couldn’t just let Liam’s comment about the Dvořák concerto lie.  He used that desperate, devoted part of his soul to finally find his voice.

“I may have picked the Dvořák,” Harry explained quietly.  He mustered all the strength he had not to betray the fact that he was so close to tears he was almost choking on it.  “But having Louis here to play it, that was the gift.”

Liam blinked at him, his worried eyes flicking over Harry’s face like he was working something out.   _Shit._  He’d probably just succeeded in making it worse.

Harry swallowed hard again and took another breath.  He could do this, play a part so he could get the hell out of there.   _And talk to Louis.  Fuck, I need to talk to Louis._

“Having said that,” Harry continued, ignoring the ferocious pain filling up his body, willing it down into a dull ache, “I don’t suppose we ever had a particularly harmonious working relationship, did we?”  He managed a detached chuckle.

Liam gave him a little, knowing smile, the confusion on his face clearing a bit.

_That’s a lie,_ Harry thought.   _That’s a lie._  Pinpricks of fear ran down his back.   _Isn’t it?  At least it is to me…  Maybe at the start, but then..._  

He shook it off.  He had to get through this if it killed him.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I can say I’m not all that surprised,” he said.  He kept his tone as dry as possible, even though his heart had wedged itself up in his throat as he lied.

Liam sighed in understanding, shaking his head.  He was clearly thinking of his own experiences dealing with difficult, prima donna musicians.  

_Should I be, though?_ Harry thought, a noxious, squirming nervousness settling in his gut.   _Should I be surprised?_

His thoughts were cut off by Liam clearing his throat and pointing down the hall to Grimshaw’s office.  “Well,” he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder once, “I should get going.  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Maestro.  I’m pulling for you.”

Harry gave a small nod of thanks and then Liam was on his way, trousers _zwiffing_ together briskly as he went.

Harry stood by himself on the mezzanine and took a shuddering inhalation, one hand braced against his stomach.  He felt exposed and raw; even his skin hurt.

He had to go talk to Louis, right now.   

Less than half an hour later, Harry was standing on the curb outside Louis’s flat with a heavy heart, staring up at the peeling green paint on his front door.  He’d taken a cab over, not bothering to text that he was coming.  He figured Louis wouldn’t respond anyway, or he’d tell him not to come at all, and Harry wasn’t sure which would be worse.  It appeared that Louis was home though; Harry could see the soft glow of a light in the front window.

His chest tightened as he looked up at the little house.  He’d never actually been inside it before, and only really knew its location because Niall had once driven them both home from a hangover brunch in the Astra.  Louis’s had been the first stop.  Remembering the way he had jogged up the steps, turning back to wave happily and smile at Harry (smile for him, really) made the pain under Harry’s sternum sharpen suddenly, radiating out through his ribcage.

_Shit._  He let out a wet huff of miserable laughter.   _Different kind of heartburn this time._

He’d eaten too much greasy food at the diner they’d gone to for brunch that day and spent the ride home and several hours afterward wallowing in self pity and complaining to Louis about his markedly lowered quality of life.  But then Louis had come over late that afternoon with some antacids.  He’d teased Harry about what he perceived as a ridiculously low pain tolerance, but also coddled him until he felt better, letting him lie on the couch with his head in Louis’s lap, Louis’s fingers stroking slowly through his curls.

“I know you felt better hours ago,” Louis had said with a fond smirk, as dusk fell.  “Unbelievable behavior, Styles, milking the situation this way!  Taking advantage of my sympathies.”

He made no indication that Harry should actually move, though, and they’d stay in the same positions on the sofa, Louis’s delicate hands buried in his hair until it was time for bed.

It had been so lovely.

Tears sprang to Harry’s eyes at the stupid memory.  There were too many… too many stupid, perfect memories.

_Heartbreak, really.  Not heartburn,_ he thought inanely, still staring at the light in the window.  A maniacal giggle strangled in his lungs at his pathetic, slightly unhinged attempt to make light of the situation.   _That’s right, laugh so you don’t cry.  Don’t cry.  Don’t cry._

Harry had gotten into the taxi full of righteous anger, ready to burst into Louis’s apartment and demand answers, demand to know if it was true.  Ask him why, and how, and _why,_ and did I ever know you at all?

Now he just felt scared.  So scared and sad, and so hurt.  He wasn’t ready for the confirmation he felt sure was coming.  Wasn’t ready to see the Louis that was inside the flat.  He wanted to keep holding on to the Louis that had cradled his head in his lap and gently rubbed his temples.  Harry wasn’t able to reconcile the two in his mind.  He didn’t want to admit that one of them existed at all.

Harry wiped at the few tears that had spilled onto his cheeks, shaking out his limbs and bracing for the worst.  He began to climb the stairs.

_How could he, really?  How?_ he wondered, still clinging to the last vestiges of hope.  Nervous energy built inside him with each consecutive step, rising to a level close to panic.  It felt like he was about to find out the result of a very high stakes audition, one he was sure he’d botched.  But this time he didn’t know when or how, which notes he’d missed.

He paused in front of the decrepit-looking door, his whole body absolutely twitching with anxiety.  He brought up an unsteady hand, swallowed hard, and knocked.

Harry ducked his head and closed his eyes.  He took a step back, listening to the sound of slowly approaching footfalls inside the house.  His heart was pounding so quickly and with so much force that it hurt his spine.

_He wouldn’t.  He didn’t._

The door creaked open in small increments and Harry’s eyes blinked open with it.  Time felt suspended as he slowly lifted his head.

There was Louis in the doorway, blank-faced and looking up at him.

_He did._

“Louis.”  The name came out in a terrible, halting, gasp of a sob, tearing out of Harry like his soul was coming with it.  He spun around and faced the street, tears clouding up his vision.  He couldn’t look at Louis a second longer, unable to truly fathom what he’d seen in his guarded blue eyes.  

Ashes.  Ashes.  Everything was ashes all around him.  Crumbling down, caving in and disintegrating as hurt and humiliation engulfed him.  

It was worse than he’d expected, worse than he could have possibly anticipated or imagined.  It was all-encompassing -- his whole body, every possible nerve ending raw and sparking.  Harry’s torso was swaying slightly in an irregular elliptical path.  He felt drunk from the pain, almost.  Drunk and drowning in it, desperate for air that would never come.

“What was it that you wanted?” Louis asked woodenly, after a beat.

All the righteous anger from earlier roared back to life inside Harry, igniting with a _whoosh,_ the removed quality of Louis’s voice like a lit match to gasoline.  He whirled back around with his eyes blazing.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he managed to spit out through choking tears.  Before he knew what he was doing he had crowded Louis back into the house and stalked him into the living room, trembling with rage.  “Are you?”

Louis quickly put the couch between them, eyes hard, jaw clenched.  He crossed his arms over his chest.  He made no move to respond.

Harry started to pace, shaking out the excess anger in his arms and trying to not show how close he was to hyperventilating.  He rounded on Louis after five or six passes, intending to lay into him again, but when he looked directly at him all the fight drained out of his body.  He didn’t have the energy; another wave of heartbreak had washed over him.  He took a shaky breath, holding a hand up like a barrier between them.  He needed something more than Louis’s stupid couch, something he’d chosen instead of Louis.

“I can’t understand it,” he whispered at last, his voice garbled by emotion.  “Where did this come from?  I kept telling myself on the way here, Louis wouldn’t.  Louis wouldn’t.  Why would he?  And I can’t understand.  I can’t --” he sucked in a jagged breath.

Louis shifted awkwardly on the other side of the couch, looking small and stony and detached.  Aggravatingly beautiful, even so.  He stayed silent.

“Because I thought.  Don’t you… at all?  Because I-I lo --” Harry cut himself off.  He couldn’t bring himself to say it, realizing with a putrid rush of shame how incredibly one-sided this love must actually be for Louis to have done this.  He was cut to the quick, something had been severed inside of him and he struggled for several moments to draw air.  The pain on the stoop had been just the beginning, apparently.     

“I’m such a fool,” he whispered.  His cheeks were bright red with frustration and embarrassment.  “You’ve made me look like such a fool.”

Louis’s forehead creased.  He frowned and arched a brow.  “You’re clearly still employable.  So.”

Harry gasped, his eyes widening and watering.  It felt like he’d been punched in the gut by the plot twist of a second-rate thriller; his favorite character had been the bad guy all along.   _How could I have been so blind?  Don’t I know him at all?_

“You’re going to Berlin,” Louis said, shrugging and rocking back on his heels a little.

“Well, that appears to be my only option, anyway,” Harry said, too shocked and upset to say much else.

“Yeah,” Louis said, the only hint of emotion a slight tremor in the muscle of his jaw.  “So.  I mean, I’m not sure how you can act like we were ever too serious about this in the first place.”  He gestured between them with a casual flick of his delicate wrist.  

"Oh, I see," Harry croaked, clenching and unclenching his fists to distract from the brutal pain in his heart.  "So… so you were just acting in accordance with what you thought were the best interests of the orchestra, then?"

Louis shrugged.

Harry’s whole body sagged and he stared down at his shoes, still feeling blindsided and unmoored.  He wished something inside him would harden against Louis, but it wouldn’t.  Maybe it never would.  That was the worst part.  He might love Louis for the rest of his life and Louis was never going to let him in, not completely.  Not ever.  He felt so utterly demoralized and defeated and small.

When he raised his head to speak again, there were hot tears streaming down his face.  “I don’t understand you,” he choked out, shaking his head.  “I want…  I want to be on your side so much, always.  And no matter how hard I try, you don’t want me to be there.  You won’t let me.  You’ll always push me away.  I don’t know why I can’t learn.”  He choked on the last couple of words.

Louis was staring down at an angle, gaze boring into the couch in front of him.  He didn’t make eye contact and he didn’t say a word.

“Right,” Harry said.  “Right.”  He shook his head.  “Goodbye, Louis,” he whispered, before he lurched back through Louis’s foyer and stumbled out the door.

*

Harry was cutting it incredibly fine getting to Heathrow in time to make his flight to Berlin.  The only reason he wasn’t going to miss his plane for sure was because Niall had been sending him reminder texts about the realities of international travel since mid-morning.

10:25 a.m.   **Hope you’ve started packing, Hazza.  Can’t leave if you don’t pack!!!!**

11:15 a.m.   **2 hours early for international fliiiiights.  Dont’ be late.**

12:30 p.m.   **Did you pack?  Open your duffel, put in some pants.**

12:45 p.m.   **Don’t forget t factor in your taxi to airport travel time, mate!!!!!! :)**

12:46 p.m.   **know ya said ya didn’t need a ride to LHR but is someone over there pickin ya up at the Flug Garten???**

Harry finally broke down and texted back, even though he knew Niall was baiting him with his ridiculous German and he was playing right into his hands.

12:47 p.m.   _Flughafen._

12:47 p.m.   _And no._

12:47 p.m.   _But I’ll be fine._

Harry staggered out of his loft that afternoon with only a poorly packed duffel bag and a rucksack for luggage.  He had to leave his cello behind for the time being, as he’d been unable to book an extra ticket for her on his flight.  He was trying to feel better about it by telling himself it would be easier to get a cab.  Which turned out to be true, thank God, because despite Niall’s relentless badgering Harry was already a full twenty minutes behind schedule to get through security on time.

It was nice, Niall being so supportive since the thing had happened.  Even if Harry couldn’t bring himself to talk openly about what it was.  And even if Niall’s kindness sometimes made Harry feel even closer to tears than he’d already been, it was always such a comfort, having him there as a friend.  

Harry was fairly certain Niall had been able to tell something was off the second he’d arrived at Harry’s office at St. Luke’s to help with all the boxes, like they’d planned.

“You’re not up for pints t’night after all, are ya?” he asked, after they’d finished unloading the boot of the car and taken the boxes up to Harry’s loft that night.  Niall had leaned back against the side of the Astra, feet crossed at the ankles, looking up at Harry with gentle eyes.

Harry had bitten his lip to keep from crying and slowly shook his head.

“All right,” Niall said, gripping the back of his neck and frowning, brow furrowed.  “Just lemme know when you wanna talk, ‘kay Hazza?”

Harry had just nodded, unable to speak as Niall clapped him on the shoulder, got into his car and drove away.  Harry stood on the pavement and watched him take the first right, then went upstairs to his flat and cried until he finally fell asleep.

That’s mostly how it had been going, the past week and a half.  Harry spent his time wandering around in a detached, zombie-like daze, either crying or just about to start.  He felt so devastated, so irreparably sad.  The pain had settled like a yoke over his neck and he carried it everywhere with him, at all times.  It never fully went away, only varied in intensity.  He couldn’t even seem to escape it when he slept.  It was far worse than simple romantic disappointment; Harry was well and truly heartbroken.  He knew that for the first time in his life, he was experiencing real, profound grief.  Niall seemed to sense that too.

Which was why he’d shown up without even having been asked to help Harry clean out his office at the Barbican, after the LSO offer officially fell through.  And why, instead of the large party Harry knew he’d normally have planned, Niall had taken Harry out to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet for a quiet goodbye lunch, just the two of them.  And why he’d been texting Harry all morning, encouraging him to get it together to make his flight, trying to get him to laugh, and just generally letting him know he was always there if Harry needed him to be.  Harry was grateful.

The view of London rushing past the windows of the cab blurred as tears welled up in Harry’s eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day.  He was sorry to be leaving Niall, especially since he was being such an exceptional friend, but the truth was there was only one reason he’d been so loathe to leave for his flight, why he’d delayed beyond what was sensible or rational.  Only one reason why his heart was pounding faster and faster the nearer he got to the airport.  This was it.  Harry was leaving London for real.  He was leaving _Louis_ for real.  It was over.  He had to choke back a sob as the realization sank in, the ever-present sadness inside of him sharpening to its fullest extent.  It felt as though his heart would rupture.  He still didn’t want it to end.

_Louis Tomlinson._

_Louis Tomlinson._

_Deep breaths._

_Deep breaths._

His mother’s voice inside his head was the only thing that saved him from making an utter fool of himself in the back of the taxi.

_Deep breaths._

Harry’d had plenty of time alone since that night at Louis’s house, plenty of time to think it over, to dwell and obsess, and he still couldn’t work it all out.  He couldn’t understand where it had gone so wrong and how he could possibly have misread the situation so completely.  Couldn’t understand the coldness in Louis’s eyes, the purposeful, carefully-maintained distance that seemed so unlike the Louis Tomlinson he’d fallen in love with.  His flat had become a poisonous treasure trove of previously fond memories.  Laughter and soft touches, the press of Louis’s hand at the back of his neck.   _I’m so sorry about_ Boléro, _Harry.  I’m -- I’m sorry about all of it._

Harry sighed and balled his fists, feeling his biceps flex as he punched down gently into the vinyl seat of the taxi.   _He must have felt something.  I know he did.  Didn’t he?  But why?  Why…_  His mind kept getting stuck in loops of second guessing and self-doubt.

He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about what would have happened if he hadn’t run into Liam Payne on the mezzanine that night.  Would that have any been better?  Would it have hurt any less never to have known what Louis had done?  Would Louis have carefully suggested he go to Berlin after Harry offered to stay even though he didn’t have a job in London anymore?  Because that’s what Harry would have done.  He’d have wanted to stay with Louis, no matter what, no matter where.  Would Louis have let him down easy?  Subtly implied that there was no real reason for Harry to remain in London, not on his account, anyway?  In his heart, Harry couldn’t fully believe that Louis would have done that, but then again, deep down, that was what he’d been so afraid of all along.  Rejection.

_Rejected by Louis Tomlinson, yet again._

Harry had only been proven right, but he couldn’t quite shake the vague, sinking feeling that it had been a self-fulling prophecy somehow.  The most hopelessly depressed he felt was when he thought about how rarely they’d fought, once they’d finally gotten together.  A horrible and insistent voice inside his head kept saying, _Never fought because you never really talked, not about anything that mattered.  Never talked, that means you didn’t really know him, did you?  Never.  Not at all._  

_I did though!_ he wanted to scream.   _I knew him!  I know him!_  But he couldn’t be sure it was true.

“Terminal?” the driver asked as Heathrow loomed ahead, snapping Harry out of it.  

“Five,” Harry said, but his voice came out too softly to be heard, blocked by emotion.  He cleared his throat, and tried again.  “Five.”

And then there he was, standing just inside Terminal Five, blinking up at the departures board, looking for the 4:50 p.m. British Airways flight to Berlin Tegel.  It was right on time.  Harry was going to have to book it.

 

A week had passed since Harry left London, and Louis was dressed presentably.  His hair was washed and styled.  He’d shaved that morning without so much as a nick, and had remembered to put on deodorant.  His socks matched.  He was in a practice room in the basement of St. Luke’s at 7:30 a.m., diligently working on new music for guest conductor Lucinda Price.  Notes rang confidently out of his violin and reverberated between the sound-dampening walls of the small space, rolling and fading over each other like waves.  He was the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra.

He felt like human shit.

Not that he was allowing it to affect him.  Now that Harry was gone, now that he’d left him for greener, less-complicated (German) pastures, Louis could finally concentrate.  He could find himself again in the music.  In his practice schedule, which he’d vowed to triple.

He frowned.   _So why do I sound like a robot._

_‘S nothing,_ he told himself.   _Just rusty.  Just need to loosen up._

Louis saw a flash of Harry leaning over him, pink and hot with sweat-damp curls splayed across his forehead, singing softly as he used two fingers to scissor Louis open. _“Hang loose…  Hang loose…”_  He started giggling then, slipping in a third, and Louis threw an arm across his face.  “Idiot,” he murmured, fondly.  But Harry kept singing.

_“Go with the tide and I’m-a take care of you.”_

Louis reeled, fingers jerking on his bow.  Harry had happened -- he had _happened,_ and he’d left.  That was all.  It was time to work.  He took a deep breath and turned the page of his sheet music.  He was going to get back to what he’d been before.  What he had been before was fine.  “Harry chose,” he muttered to himself like a mantra.  “It was Harry’s choice.  Harry chose Berlin.  Harry chose.  Harry chose.”   _And what I said to the board didn’t make a difference._

He heard a knock on the door.  Louis glanced at his watch before he turned around -- still early, almost eight.  He set his violin carefully in its case and stuck his head into the hallway.  “Nicholas Grimshaw,” he said.  Christ, even his voice sounded dead.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Nick replied.  “We need to talk.  May I…?”  He shouldered his way into the tiny practice room, a manila folder stuffed to bursting under one of his arms.

“Sure…” Louis said, eyebrows raised as Nick tried to make himself comfortable on a half-broken folding chair.  His knobby knees were almost poking Louis, who stood awkwardly above him against the opposite wall.  He didn’t think he’d ever seen the managing director in the basement of St. Luke’s before.  He didn’t quite fit.

“You haven’t accepted any of my meeting requests in Outlook,” Nick frowned.  “Which is why I have come to find you in person.”

“Sorry, I --”

Nick held his hands up, folder slipping down his lap.  “Not that I ever expect any of you musicians to check your e-mail; you’re always off practicing somewhere, which is probably as it should be.  Like herding cats…”  He sighed.  “Anyway.”

“Nick,” Louis cut in, “I’m sorry about what I said to Dennis Turner.  I know you were trying to prompt me to say basically the opposite…”  He bit his lip and rolled his eyes down to the carpet, staring at the toes of Nick’s fuddy-duddy wingtips.

“No, no,” Grimshaw waved away his apology.  “You were just telling the truth.  Honestly, it was a bit inappropriate for him to corner you like that and ask you.  Most of the board were looking for any excuse not to commit the money to Styles’s salary.  Even if you’d said what I wanted you to, they’d have found one elsewhere.  No, that’s not what this is about.”

Louis sagged a little in relief, muscles relaxing slightly although he was still on edge.   _Not my fault,_ he thought, with a self-righteous zip of indignation.   _See?  It’s really not my fault.  He would have gone to Berlin anyway.  It would have been over anyway._  He added this new piece of information to his carefully-constructed reality, the one he’d built for himself on the tube two and a half weeks before on his way back from the Barbican after the conversation with the board.   _He would have left no matter what._  It was the only thought that had been going through his mind during the confrontation with Harry, the only thing that had kept his face impassive, even though his heart had been breaking.   _You’re leaving me no matter what.  No matter what, you’ve chosen to leave._

“Although it is a shame, because Harry made it very clear to me that he would have been more than delighted to take a permanent position with the LSO.  Kept going on about how much he loved London.  How much he wanted to stay…  I’m positive if the position _had_ been offered, he would have turned down Berlin in a heartbeat.”  Nick lowered his voice with a smirk.  “Confidentially, I think he was seeing someone.”

There was no air.  There was no air in the room.  Louis’s mind blinked out.  His world exploded and re-knit itself a second later, into new and terrifying shapes.  He squeezed his eyes shut for a beat, felt like he couldn’t move.  Couldn’t react.  And Nick just laughed.

“But that’s neither here nor there.  You’re obviously glad to see the back of him, and I admit that it does make budgeting next season a bit easier on me.”

Louis wished Grimshaw would get to the damn point.  Or was he just here to rip Louis’s heart out of his chest and shove it down his throat?  Suffocating on his own heart -- that’s what, _God,_ that’s what was happening.  Louis couldn’t breathe.  He felt his chest rise and fall, panicking ( _this is what he’d been avoiding with the matching socks, the shaving, the dressing, the practicing_ ) as he tried to take in air.  Why hadn’t Nick noticed the lack of oxygen?  Louis was choking on vacuum.  His hands began to tremble; he immediately checked for Thunder, didn’t want to drop -- oh, he was right there in his case…

“One thing that did become clear as a result of this Styles business is that the LSO needs a bright young star.”

“Um?”  Louis managed to choke out the word.  He could tell that he was acting odd; he could almost see himself fidgeting, breathing deeply.  But Nick kept talking.

“Yes, someone for everyone to get excited about.  Someone for the internet, if you see what I mean; someone to build hype around, someone… sexy.”

So, Nick had butted into his morning practice session to inform him that Harry Styles had been sexy.   _This must be the low point,_ Louis thought, with a burst of fresh panic.   _This must be it, right here, right now._  Either it was the low point, or he was slowly sinking toward depths he’d never previously imagined.

“We think that person could be you.”

Louis blinked.  “W-what?”  He was sweating; he could feel the wet patches under his armpits.  He could hear his odd little breaths echoing around the practice room, and he felt so, so exposed.  Like a worm on a hook -- a disgusting, small thing, writhing in pain.  He didn’t understand anything.

“The bright young star!” Nick clapped delightedly.  “You’re still young and…” he flapped his hands in the general direction of Louis’s face, “good-lookingish.  The board thinks that on the strength of that Dvořák performance last month, we could promote you as a solo artist.  Starting with another concerto; we’re thinking Bruch’s first might be a good fit.  Another distinctive, high-energy third movement, right?  Like the Dvořák.  And then we can start talking album deals…”

Louis’s head swam.  He coughed and tipped his head back against the wall, blinking up in mild confusion at the flickering fluorescent light.  A solo career.  Album deals.  Recognition.  Nick was still _fucking talking._

“... and the press absolutely shat themselves over you, pardon the expression.  We have PR contacts and we think it’s likely we could plant a couple of fluff profiles.  Full of flattery.  Big promo…”

This is what he’d wanted.  If you had asked Louis five months ago what he wanted, this scene is more or less what he would have described.  The chance to make himself a household name, become the next Joshua Bell.  Louis felt oddly removed from the whole situation, as though he were in a dream and watching himself, watching Nick slip some sheets of paper out of his manila folder and hold them up to Louis, going on about _Operation Tomlinson._

“And of course, fingers crossed, the Dvořák should go on your debut album.  People are still talking about it.  We’ve got to strike while the iron is hot…”

His voice faded out again.  Louis tried to read the bit of paper he’d been handed, managed to register something about how he should really, really check his Outlook more often because he was about to be inundated with meetings.  He’d be working closely with Liam Payne on this.   _Big things, Louis!  Big things!  Well, I’ll let you go.  I’m sure you want to make some calls._

“Mhmm,” Louis nodded, a bit absently.  “Thanks, Grimshaw.”  This was so wrong.  He didn’t have the words to describe how wrong this all felt.

Then Nick was gone.  Louis turned around and collapsed into the folding chair with a small _uff,_ threading his fingers through his hair, stretching the skin on his forehead as he leaned over into his hands and gazed at the floor.  His whole body was still quaking, pain shooting through him in little gasps as he managed to register again what Nick had said earlier.

_Harry wanted to stay...  Well if he did, why didn’t he fucking say anything?_  Louis remembered the hurt expression on his face, when he’d barged into his house and begun to yell.  The look of utter betrayal.   _He was angry at me for undermining him in front of the board; I get it,_ Louis thought to himself rather carefully.  He clung to that as the main reason for Harry’s pain, for the tears that had welled in his eyes.   _But he left, and he would have left no matter what.  And now you get this._

“It’s not my fault,” muttered Louis, stubbornly.  His voice sounded small, though.  Like he didn’t really believe it.  “I didn’t ask for it.  I mean, I wanted it… I should be happy!”

He wondered who he was arguing with.

Louis stood up.  He was picking up steam now, anger flashing through him along with the wracking, persistent sense of guilt.  “For God’s sake, he would have left eventually anyway!  He chose.  I didn’t do a thing.  I didn’t.  This is _not_ my fault.  Grimshaw said.  He said they probably wouldn’t have given him the position…”

_Fuck._  Louis clamped his mouth shut and zipped up his violin, gathered his sheet music and burst out of the room.  He climbed the stairs so fast that his thighs burned and his head went a little woozy, stomping out to the green courtyard behind the church, where daffodils were still in bloom.  Malik was just having his morning smoke; Louis held out his hand wordlessly and received a cigarette.  “Good man,” he mumbled, and Zayn just nodded silently.

Once it was lit, Louis drifted away and pulled out his phone with shaking fingers.  He tapped on his recent contacts and chose the name at the very top of the list.

It rang for a long moment.  Then,

“Baby?”

Louis drew in a shuddering breath.  It would always feel good to hear that voice, even if sometimes…  “Hi, Mum,” he choked out.  He glanced back at Zayn, who was studiously looking away, pretending to be engrossed in the green buds on the rosebushes.  Louis slipped around the corner of the church into the shadow under the eaves.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.  He could hear women laughing in the background, and the clinking of cutlery.  Her voice was clipped, her tone slightly insincere.  Clearly he was inconveniencing her at a brunch or something.   _Classic.  Well._  Louis couldn’t help the weak, wet laugh that sputtered out of him.

“I just had a meeting with Nick Grimshaw…”

When her tone changed a few minutes later, Louis tried not to be disappointed.  He knew what she cared about, what she wanted.

He only wished he could say the same for himself.

 

Harry gazed up at the famous tentpole façade of the Berliner Philharmonie, flexing his fingers and breathing in air lightly laced with the smell of fried food.  He had to go find his office.  Then it would be some paperwork, and afterward his first meeting with the orchestra.  He tried not to think about what he’d say to them.  Probably stumble along in his terrible half-remembered German for a while, until he’d embarrassed himself sufficiently.

“Home,” he said.  He stared at the concert hall, willing himself to feel it.  “Home.”  This was going to be his home for a long time, and the people he was about to meet would be his family.  Eventually, everything else would fade into a distant memory -- like other distant memories -- and he’d be fully present.  Here.  In Berlin.  He closed his eyes and tried to picture it.

Just then his phone buzzed; he’d gotten an email from Niall.  So that was that mood broken.

_Harry, mate, I’m gonna talk to him.  Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean.  He may be by far the bigger idiot in this situation, but you also need to realize that he’s not as strong and independent and above it all as he pretends to be.  Ok???  Gladys sends her regards.  Have a pint of Bitburger for me.  This will all work out._

Harry snorted loudly and pressed his lock button, making his screen go black and cold.  Tears pricked at his eyes, _God,_ and he’d thought he didn’t have any tears left.  He bit his lip and dropped his gaze from the strange sun-burnished color of the Philharmonie, toeing the sidewalk with his suede boot, circling an old gum stain over and over as he fought not to cry.   _Louis’s not independent, right.  That’s clearly why he told Dennis fucking Turner I wasn’t a “good fit” for the LSO, because he wants me to stay and take care of him and make him pancake breakfasts forever.  Logic._  Harry took a shuddering breath.  He felt like he hadn’t been able to get a full handle on himself yet, not since that conversation with Liam Payne at the Barbican a lifetime and a continent ago.

“What did you do to me, Louis?” he whispered.  His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, body rigid.  He wasn’t going to let it all in again.  He wasn’t going to feel like -- _ugh, no,_ he wasn’t going to have a repeat of his breakdown on the plane, which had ended in Harry surrounded by three flight attendants gingerly offering him cocktail napkins to pat his weepy eyes with.  He wasn’t going to think about Louis’s skin.  His golden, beautiful skin or his smile.  Or the way he’d found to tease Harry just right.  Just enough to get him a little hot, just a _touch_ embarrassed, but not so much that Harry couldn’t see the fondness beaming at him from those sparkling blue eyes.   _Beautiful boy, my beautiful boy._  Feeling like Louis found him endearing was the best thing.  And then, for some reason...

“God, What did you do to me?”

Harry took a deep breath, willing himself to be steady.  Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

_“Hallo,_ Harry!”  It was Florian Weil, setting his violin case down and opening his arms wide for a hug.  Harry fell into them and sighed deeply.  At least he had a friend here.  A replacement Niall.  That’s what I’m going to say when I answer his email.  He could almost hear Niall cackling back in London.

_“Herr Weil!”_ he said, in his best German accent.   _“Wie geht’s?  Es ist schön dich wiederzusehen!”_

Florian pulled back from the hug and grinned at him, dark eyes searching his face.  Harry remembered how helpful he had been the last time he was alone and feeling lost in Berlin, almost six years ago, now.  Gently correcting his German, showing him around the city, aware that Harry was the sort of person who needed a bit of mothering even as an adult.  Florian was just a very nice man.  His friendly smile slowly turned into a frown as he took in Harry’s red-rimmed eyes and splotchy skin.  “Are you okay?” he asked, considerately switching into his near-perfect English.  “Not homesick already?”

Harry tried not to think about how if Louis had found him like this he’d have teased him about _blatantly loitering, conversing with sidewalks.  Out of control, Styles._  Or something along those lines.  Instead he tried to appreciate Florian’s friendly concern.

“I’m, um…” he replied in a shaky voice.  He let out a weak laugh that was more like a moan, and rolled his eyes.  “Oh, I’m not going to make you listen to me whine about my broken heart.”

“Nonsense!” Florian declared, picking up his violin and looping his arm through Harry’s.  “Let’s go find somewhere to eat and sit, and you will tell me everything.   _Everything,”_ he repeated sternly, wagging his finger at Harry.  His hawk-like brow was determined, but his brown eyes were warm.  Harry settled into his side as they strolled through the Tiergarten, glad at least for some human contact even though it felt odd and wrong to be walking like this with someone so tall.

_“Du bist der beste, Flo,”_ Harry sighed.  “But you really have no idea what you’re getting into.  Also, do they still have those really greasy _döner_ around here?  The ones with chili sauce on them?”

“It will soon be dribbling down your chin.  _Super scharf,_ I guarantee it.”

Harry checked his watch -- he still had an hour or so before he absolutely had to be in his new office, mired in forms.  “Okay,” he said.  “I think I feel good about that.”  It was an odd sensation, after the last week and a half of lying in bed in his London flat and going through tissues and sad movies at an alarming pace.  He really should have spent that time putting his loft on the market…  (Or packing properly…)  But he figured he didn’t need to sell it.  Not right away, and maybe Gemma could use it in the future, if she ever made a permanent move to London.   _That’s just good sense._

“How’s Anja?” he asked abruptly, kicking himself for being such an abject wreck of a human being that he’d forgotten to ask about Florian’s girlfriend.

“Oh,” Florian beamed.   _“Wunderschön._  She’s pregnant.”

Harry stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gasped, throwing his arms out again.  “Flo!” he cried.  “God, Congratulations.   _Glückwünsche!”_  They hugged, and Harry even produced a genuine laugh as he hopped up and down excitedly.  Florian had been a notorious partier on the club scene back when Harry’d been living in Berlin, always up for a drunken snog or a dirty grind with his diverse group of friends.  He knew there’d been some interesting rumors, but despite persistent speculation about his sexuality, Harry was pretty sure Florian was straight.  And now he’d finally found someone to settle down with.

Harry’s heart clenched.   _I don’t.  I don’t have that._  Suddenly he felt close to tears again.

“Fuck,” he gasped, as they broke their hug.  Florian laughed at him, a big booming bass laugh that was nothing like Louis’s, _thank God._  “I mean,” Harry coughed, “er, when’s she due?  Do you know if it’s _ein Jung_ or _ein mädchen?”_

They talked for a bit longer about the pregnancy.  Anja was due in another four months, in September, and the baby was a boy.  Florian liked the name Lukas best, but Anja was leaning toward Moritz.  By the time they’d gotten their dripping, foil-wrapped _döner_ and found a bench to sit on, Florian had begun to pepper Harry with questions.

“I’ve bought your food,” he said.  “Now pay me back by telling me about the person who left you this way.  Who do I have to kill?”

Harry smiled weakly, mouth full of lamb and vegetables and delicious chili sauce.  “It’s um…” he swallowed.  “Louis Tomlinson.”

Florian groaned, nearly spitting out part of his _döner._   _“Tomlinson?_  That little…”

“Heyyyy,” Harry interjected automatically, brows knit in a stormy expression.

Florian rolled his eyes and backed off.  “Okay, but tell me about it quickly before I make any more judgements.”

Harry mumbled and gulped through most of the story -- leaving out the more private bits while still getting most of the gist across as Florian sat next to him, chewing and nodding thoughtfully.

“I’ll impale him with my bow,” Florian grumbled.  “Right through his cold little heart.  Do you know we used to call him ‘Snotty Amati?’”

Harry snorted and sighed, licking a stray bit of sauce off his wrist before crumpling up the empty foil and tossing it into a garbage can.  “I did not know that, but I can believe it,” he said, dryly.  He felt a sudden urge to protest that Louis’s heart _wasn’t_ cold, that he was a wonderful person; he was so beautiful, he was…

_I really need to stop fooling myself, though.  He hurt me, and it’s not acceptable.  He hurt me.  Because that is what Louis Tomlinson does._  Harry let out a shaky breath, willing his body not to ache.  And still, somewhere inside him lived the tiny seed of hope that Louis had done it for some reason that at least made _sense._  That Harry hadn’t really misread everything.  That Louis was scared, or had been manipulated somehow, that terrorists had put a gun to his head and…  That’s where the theories started getting ridiculous.   _Fuck,_ Harry thought.   _Why?_  He couldn’t for the life of him understand.   _But he did care about me.  He did.  Didn’t he?_

“I have to stop fooling myself,” he told Florian as they got up and started walking back to the Philharmonie, editing out the rest of his thoughts.  “I just feel like I had these blinders on for our entire relationship.  I thought it was something completely different from what it must have actually been.  It’s driving me a little insane, to be honest.  That I was so out of touch with reality and didn’t realize…”

“He must have a really great cock,” Florian said.

Harry just groaned and punched him in the shoulder.

*

Later, when he was standing on a new podium in front of the Berlin Philharmonic, he felt a weird sense of déjà vu.   _“Guten Tag,”_ he began.   _“Danke, dass Sie mich hier eingeladen haben.”_  He looked out over all of the pleasant faces, most of them unfamiliar.  As unfamiliar as Gerald Courtenay and Gladys Howard and Zayn Malik had been to him just a few months before.  It had been so lovely getting to know all of those people, getting to have conversations and form friendships and…   _Don’t think about him._  Harry’s heart began to pound, and he shifted his weight a bit, glancing down at his boots for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry; I’m really crap at German.”

Everyone laughed.  Harry smiled.  Just like his first day in London.

So why couldn’t he believe that this would be the same?

 

Louis’s head was throbbing as he slumped over his bathroom sink.  His throat hurt; he’d just dry swallowed two aspirin and was already dreading the rest of the day.  It was quarter of six.  He had to practice all morning and then lead sectional, right before an afternoon session with the full orchestra.  They’d be rehearsing the Bruch for the first time.  He closed the mirror cabinet and stared at his reflection. 

He looked disheveled.  His eyes were red and his beard was growing out again, hair a mess.   _This is supposed to be me_ not _distracted._

He wasn’t getting enough sleep, that was all.  Not since…  Louis sighed.   _Harry Styles.  Not since I was sleeping in that stupid too-soft bed._  It was beginning to catch up with him.  He leaned back and popped his spine, scratching his stomach lightly with one hand as he tried to wake up. _That’s the thing about insomnia,_ Louis thought.   _You’re awake all the time, but not really.  Not so that you feel alive._

Somehow he managed a shower and a couple of pieces of toast before he shuffled out the door.  The train station seemed oddly silent, as if everyone else had fucked off to Brighton to enjoy the balmy June weather; there were no melodies for him on the 6:14.  Louis forced himself up the steps at Barbican Station resolving to at least appreciate the feel of the sun on his face, but started blinking immediately when he emerged onto the sidewalk.   _Ugh.  Pathetic._

When he finally sequestered himself in a tiny basement room in St. Luke’s, his limbs felt heavy and uninspired.  He ran through the Bruch twice -- he’d already memorized it, thanks to his new, improved practice schedule -- and didn’t feel anything either time.  He could barely remember how he’d played, or what.  His brain felt washed-out, like an old tie-dye shirt after one too many launderings.  Confused and faded, a bit of a muddy gray all over.   _And wrinkled,_ he groaned, pawing at the corners of his eyes as he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror above a drinking fountain during the one short break he allowed himself.

He put Thunder away and moped off to lunch around noon, not sure where or what he felt like eating.  He meandered through the streets around the church, turning left and right, crossing streets at random along with people who were actually walking with a purpose.  And somehow he ended up in front of the varnished oak doors of the Old Red Cow.   _Well.  A pub burger isn’t the worst._  Of course, as soon as he pushed through to the dim, nearly-deserted interior, he spotted a familiar snapback sitting at the bar.

It wasn’t that he had been avoiding Niall.  It was just… he’d been so busy, lately, catching up with practice.  Making sure he stayed on top of everything professionally.  But Niall hadn’t been seeking him out either.  Hadn’t been offering him rides home, or inviting him out for drafts and darts with Gladys.   _It’s not a big deal, though,_ Louis tried to tell himself, as he continued to stand hesitantly in the doorway.   _He’s just… busy too, probably._

“In or out mate, make a decision!”  Louis jumped at the rough voice of the bartender and stepped inside, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him.

Niall turned around to see who was being yelled at, and actually frowned.

“Um,” Louis started.  He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Niall looking so angry.  It was unsettling; it changed his entire face.

Niall just rolled his eyes and pulled out the barstool next to him before turning back to the pint he was nursing.  “Come on, then, Tommo.  Ya titting arse.”

Louis walked to the bar slowly and sat down with a reluctant sigh.  “Hello,” he said.

They sat in silence for a good twenty seconds as Louis pretended to look at a menu while actually glancing over at Niall and studying his stubborn, quietly enraged expression.  “So…”

“How’s the Bruch treatin’ ya?” Niall asked abruptly, taking a swig of his beer without looking at Louis.

“It’s awful,” Louis muttered.  He tapped the plastic menu against the bar a couple of times and then set it down, splaying his fingers across it as he picked at one of the edges.  “Utter shit.”

“I’ve been meaning to have a conversation with you,” Niall said.  “About Harry.”

“What about Harry?”  Louis could hear his voice get high and tight, too defensive too quickly but beyond his control.  His hands trembled.  They were leaden on his violin and jittery everywhere else, never normal.  God, he was so tired.  He muttered as he watched his fingers twitch.  “I mean, he’s in Berlin, so…”

“I know what you told Dennis Turner, okay?”

Louis made a helpless little noise.  “I --”

“I also know you were sleeping with Harry, so don’t lie to me about it not being personal.”  Niall turned on his barstool, finally looking at Louis.   _Shit.  Shit, shit._  Louis couldn’t meet his eyes, wilting under his gaze and feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He fought to breathe in and out.

“Look,” he choked out.  “Grimshaw told me that it didn’t make a difference.  The board didn’t want to offer him that position.  And he was going to leave anyway, Niall.  So it’s not -- it’s not my fault.”

“Oh, you _complete_ gobshite.  Who cares about the fucking board?”  Niall slammed down his empty pint and stood up, slipping on his Ray-Bans and hitching his bag up over his shoulder.  “The point is that you said it at all.  And I’ve no idea why, but I assume it comes right down to you being a coward.”

Louis swallowed around a lump in his throat.  The excuse he’d built for himself back in that hard, plastic seat on the tube and clung to like a raft was finally breaking up.  Niall was right, of course; he was devastatingly right and Louis was crap.   _It is my fault.  It fucking is._  Not that Louis hadn’t known all along that it was down to him, in the deepest recesses of himself.  But he hadn’t ever let it surface, had pushed it away and piled layers of denial on top of it.  Willed himself to forget how Harry had looked at him, the love and pain on his face, as though it hadn’t happened.   _As if it really had been just sex._

He couldn’t be stoic anymore.  And he found himself back in the Barbican lobby, back in the moments after the board members had walked away from him, when he’d asked himself _What have I done?_ and received no answer.  He still didn’t have one.

Niall did.

“No matter what, he would have stayed for you.  You ruined that, Tomlinson.  You broke him.   _You.”_  Niall turned on his heel and walked away with a single exasperated sigh, leaving Louis frozen at the bar. 

_You shitty excuse for a human being,_ Louis thought, face crumpling as he leaned down into his arms.  His cheek was pressed into the sticky plastic menu, tears leaking out.   _You didn’t even have the decency to take responsibility._

He had sectional in twenty minutes.  He had a solo concerto to perform.  He didn’t know what he was going to fucking do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Harry sings to Louis in the brief fingering flashback is [Hang Loose](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4sSl11GMkMI) by Alabama Shakes.
> 
> I'm out of comfort gifs, but hopefully the lyrics of that song are comforting enough for now.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads this every week, leaves kudos and comments, and gives us feedback on Tumblr! We love you guys.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry hated his new flat in Berlin.  Outright hated it.  The living room was too small, the ceilings were too low, the modern, utilitarian door handles verged on the idiotic, and most importantly it did not contain his cello.  He’d been pacing around the kitchen for the past fifteen minutes, muttering about how much he disliked it and tugging on his hair, ever since he’d gone through his post.  Ever since he’d opened one piece in particular.

If it had come via e-mail, Harry figured he would have been able to ignore it.  Most likely he wouldn’t have even noticed.  The message probably would have gotten lost among all the other notifications and Google alerts and random solicitations that clogged up his inbox on a daily basis.  He’d have deleted it unopened and never been the wiser.

But of course it had come by post, instead.  A satisfyingly sturdy, cream-colored envelope with his name and address written in exquisite calligraphy on the front.  Harry had run his fingers over the equally lovely return address on the back flap before opening it, wondering how the Diversey-Petersheims even knew where he lived.  He’d left no forwarding address with Grimshaw; it must have come down to Niall.      

There was an invitation to a fundraising gala for the London Symphony Orchestra inside.  It was a special event in two weeks’ time that would specifically benefit the children’s musical development programs at St. Luke’s.  Taggie and Petey had been planning it for months and they’d sent the invite personally, knowing how close the cause was to Harry’s heart.  He had the piece of stationery clutched in his left hand as he strode back and forth across the kitchen tiles.

_Back to London.  Back to Louis…_

Harry glanced down at the paper again, at Petey’s gorgeous handwriting.  The soft, looping lines seemed to convey the warmth of her personality and made him feel a tug of homesickness, deep in his gut.  He had to remind himself that London was no longer his home, and that brought him dangerously close to tears.

_The orchestra would also like to invite you to the following night’s performance as a special guest.  I think you’ll be excited to hear that Louis Tomlinson is soloing again -- Bruch’s first violin concerto!  Taggie and I are certainly looking forward to it._

Harry’s heart gave a heavy, jealous lurch at the idea of someone else conducting Louis through the Bruch.  He rolled his eyes and swallowed around the oversized lump in his throat.

_As if I’d have been the only person ever to conduct him again in his life, if we’d stayed together,_ he thought, face hot with embarrassment.  He tugged at his shirt collar and grabbed a beer from the fridge.   _I tricked myself into thinking it was something special, anyway.  Glorifying it like it was some kind of ongoing emotional conversation.  Like a weirdo.  I’m a needy weirdo._

He closed his eyes, wincing as he levered off the bottle cap.  Louis’s radiant face when he’d looked up at Harry after their final performance together flashed through his mind.

_Louis Tomlinson.  Why.  How...  Was I really in it all alone, all along?_

“I can’t go back,” he announced to himself, after a large first swig.  “I can’t.  I don’t -- I don’t want to go back.”

That was a lie, mostly.  As much as the idea of seeing Louis again made him feel vaguely ill, it was the idea of not going at all that had him climbing the walls.

_If only I had Letitia._

Harry hadn’t realized how heavily he relied on his cello for stress relief until he’d moved to Berlin without her.  If Letitia had been with him, he would have been playing instead of pacing, pouring all his frustration and conflicting emotion into a simple yet aggressive piece.  He’d have lost himself in the music until his subconscious had worked out his problem while his brain rested.  That wasn’t an option now.  It had only been a week and a half, but Harry missed his cello like it was a phantom limb, his hand occasionally closing over a bow that wasn’t there.

_If I go back to London I can get my cello,_ he rationalized, as he set his half-finished beer and Petey’s crumpled letter down on the countertop, frantically casting about for his keys.  He needed to get out of the worst flat ever rented by a human being, as soon as possible.  He needed air. _It wouldn’t just be about Louis.  It’s not just about Louis; my life isn’t about Louis…  Not -- not anymore._

He finally spotted his keys on the coffee table in the living room, snatched them up and tugged on his boots.  He yanked the door to his flat shut behind him before running down two flights of stairs and out of his building.

The late afternoon air was sweet, and Harry took several deep breaths as he walked.  He was trying to remind himself what it was that he loved so much about Berlin, noting that he lived on an incredibly nice, tree-lined street and that the temperature was absolutely perfect.  He did love Berlin.  He did.  He shouldn’t need or want to go back to London, shouldn’t need or want to see Louis Tomlinson again.

_Can you handle seeing him again and not being able to touch him?_ a dark and familiar voice demanded as Harry waited impatiently at a traffic light, crossing the street and and then turning left onto Bergmannstraße.   _Can you?_

That had been one of the most difficult things for Harry to handle, one of the things he still couldn’t actually fully believe -- the fact that he’d never get to touch Louis’s skin again.  That he would never again be allowed to gather Louis’s slight frame into his arms and squeeze him, no matter how much he longed to do it, no matter how much it felt like he’d die if he didn’t.  He’d never run a thumb over the fan of Louis’s eyelashes, or tuck him into his side.  Harry had to accept the fact that he had kissed Louis for the last time and he hadn’t known.  God, the last time they’d kissed!  Every time they’d kissed!  It must have meant something vastly different to each of them, every time, and Harry had been so oblivious.

_Fuck.  I still love him.  Still want him, so much.  I have to stop; I have to stop this.  It’s over.  I have to accept that it is over._

Florian lived only six blocks away from Harry’s flat, in the same area in Kreuzberg.  That’s where he had originally intended to go, but he found himself walking all the way to Potsdamer Platz instead, needing the time to think.  He stared up at the gorgeous glass façades of the buildings when he got there, turning in a circle as he appreciated the size of the sky.  So big above him even in a city so large.  And yet.

_Heimweh, Sehnsucht, Liebeskummer.  London.  Louis.  Schade.  Schade für dich._

He shook it off and trudged slowly over to Brandenburger Tor.  He stood under the gate and looked at the beauty of Unter den Linden to the east, gazing up the street and wishing he were twenty-two again.  Like the first time he’d lived in Germany.  Twenty-two and so excited about Berlin and everyone in it.  He’d bought a ridiculously-fitted women’s Mesut Özil jersey from a small shop on this very boulevard, put it on, and then taken the train to Hackescher Markt to watch the Euro Finals with Flo and his friends in the back of a cramped pub.  It had felt like he really, truly belonged.  Like he was an adult with his own real, independent life.  What could be better than that?  Harry Styles at twenty-two couldn’t even fathom this type of heartbreak.  He had loved the world too much and felt so sure that it loved him in return.

_Louis Tomlinson,_ he thought, the near-constant ache intensifying behind his breastbone.  _Why don’t you love me?  Why can’t you?_

Harry took a meandering route back to Kreuzberg, staring at shop windows without seeing anything in them and stopping for a pint at two separate locations along the way.

_I don’t wanna go back.  I can’t,_ he thought, as he left the second cafe.   _I’ll donate some money and tell Taggie and Petey I just couldn’t make it.  I’m not going to go.  It’s a bad idea.  I’m making progress…  I’ll just stay here._

It was mid-evening when he finally reached Florian’s street, the perfect angle of the fading light making everything seem better than it was, honey-gold and beautiful as he walked along.  He knocked on the front door of Flo’s townhouse twice and then waited.

“Harry?” Florian asked, after the door swung open.  He was wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist, had probably been in the middle of cooking dinner when Harry’d interrupted.   _“Alles ok?”_

Harry bit his lip over a sheepish, twisted half-smile and looked up at Florian’s warm brown eyes.  He shrugged.

“I need you to come to London with me, please,” was all he said.

 

Louis looked across Jerwood Hall to where his mother was standing in the center of the room.  Her white wine was on the high-top table next to her, one hand loose around the stem of her glass.  They’d been among the first to arrive.  Jay always insisted on being right on time.  Fashionably late was not an option, not at posh events like this one.  Louis knew she liked to get the lay of the land, scope out where to best position herself for ideal schmoozing before it got too crowded.  He didn’t hold it against her.  In fact, normally he got a pretty big kick out of watching her in action, appreciating the skillful, enthusiastic way she worked the room.  She was very good at her job, and networking at social engagements like this fundraiser played a big part in it.  Louis hadn't been able to take much joy in anything lately, though.  So tonight, he mostly wished that showing up early meant they would be leaving early, but he knew that most likely wouldn’t be the case.

He sighed and picked his scotch up off the bar, moving to the side of the room to lean against the wall and observe from there.  He had to fight down the urge to press the cool glass of the tumbler to his temple, like he was some kind of alcoholic private detective working an unsolvable case in a film noir.  He always had a headache lately, couldn’t seem to emerge from the fog of exhaustion and sadness that he’d been swamped in since Harry had left for Berlin.  The resigned sort of dread he felt about his solo the next day only made everything that much worse.    

Louis sipped his scotch, watching as Nick Grimshaw came up to his mum and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.  More and more people were starting to filter into the room now, and he knew she expected him to start helping out.  Soon he’d have to go and stand conveniently nearby, waiting at a careful distance until she’d talked him up sufficiently, and then swoop in at just the right moment to charm whomever she was chatting to with a bit of a sparkle in his eye.  He felt a little surge of resentment at the idea of smiling for her when he didn’t feel like smiling for anyone.  When what he really wanted was for her to ask him what was wrong and hug him while he cried.  She wouldn’t, he knew.  That’s just the way it was.

He laughed ruefully into his drink, thinking about something Lottie had said the last time he’d seen her, just over a year ago.  Fresh out of uni and heading to Japan to teach English with the American boyfriend she’d met while studying abroad, she’d stayed at Louis’s flat the night before her flight and he and Niall had driven her to the airport in the morning.

“It‘s just a bad idea, telling Mum about your little life problems, I’ve realized,” she’d said over dinner at his kitchen table, laughing and picking at the label on her beer bottle after they’d been talking about the family for a while.  “I mean, all she ever does is try to tell you how to sort them out.  And that’s not really what you want, you know?  Not from her.  What you really want is to whine and complain and then for her to say ‘it’s all right, you’re all right, don’t worry.’”

Louis had chuckled in recognition as they shook their heads together and said, in unison, “She never does.”

It had been strange for him, sort of magically bittersweet, finding out that his sister had somehow managed to become a well-adjusted, perceptive adult while he wasn’t around.

“Christ,” he muttered, taking another slug of scotch when tears threatened to sting the back of his eyes.  Lottie was far more self-assured than he’d ever be.  There was an easy, confident openness to her face that made Louis feel so proud and so protective of her at the same time.   _Like Harry,_ he thought, cursing himself again, his heart swelling sharply with love.   _Harry has that too._

He pushed off the wall abruptly and started to make his way over to Jay, weaving around tables and people, suddenly desperate for any distraction from his thoughts.  He couldn’t allow himself to think about Harry, not in a place like Jerwood Hall.  Everything here was a memory; it already felt so starkly, painfully obvious that Harry was missing.  Louis could go through the motions.  He’d been doing orchestra functions for years, and he could do this one, tonight.  Even if it meant using his most grimace-like smile as he bluffed through a chat about sailing with Charles Frasier-Lind for the better part of an hour, he could get through this.

It turned out that Charles's granddaughter’s polo pony had recently been diagnosed with equine diabetes, and twenty minutes later, Louis had lost himself in their conversation about the dangers of the disease and the importance of childhood pets.  He was about to make a remark about the ridiculousness of people who don’t think animals experience any sort of emotion when he heard the laugh.

Louis froze.  The hair stood straight up on the back of his neck and a spark shot down his spine as his stomach dropped right out of his body.

There it was again, behind him and to the left.  Deep yet squawky, so distinctive.

_Harry’s laugh.  Harry is here?  Harry is here._

Louis swallowed hard and blinked at Charles Frasier-Lind, looking right through him.  His mouth had gone bone dry and his heart was pounding in his chest.  Thank God that Taggie Diversey had picked up the thread of their conversation, because Louis was completely checked out.  Harry Styles’s presence behind him was the focus of his entire existence.  He knew the laugh had come from him, was already positive, but he just had to see.  He couldn’t stop himself.

He scraped his teeth against his upper lip as turned his head about thirty degrees to the left in an attempt to casually glance over his shoulder.  He winced as soon as he laid eyes on Harry, and immediately faced forward again.

_Shit.  Shit.  Shit._

He’d only looked for a fraction of a second, but Harry was beautiful as always.  He was long and lean in his dark suit, a slight, warm smile on his face.  He seemed happy.

Louis was going to collapse into a pile on the floor and die from self-loathing.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart and mind.  Of course no one had thought to tell him Harry was coming back.  Of course he hadn’t known.  Louis barely even talked to Niall anymore.  No one else had any idea they’d been sleeping together.  He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a cold sweat break out on his skin under the fabric of his dress shirt.

“Louis?”  He registered a distant voice, his mum’s.  She placed a hand on his forearm.  “Louis, darling, could you get me another drink?”

He looked at her blankly, choked in a breath and then nodded, humming in assent.  At least this would give him a chance to gather himself.  He walked over to the bar in a daze, feeling Harry’s presence behind him like a strange extrasensory itch in the nerves of his neck.

It wasn’t until he’d ordered his mother’s Pinot grigio and was on his way back with it that he saw Harry hadn’t come to the fundraiser alone.  He’d brought Florian Weil with him.

Louis felt strangely calm at first, stopping short and gazing across Jerwood Hall at Florian and Harry as they told Niall and Gladys a story.  From all the gesturing and laughing going on, it appeared to be about someone getting attacked by bird while riding a bicycle.  Louis deduced this in a detached way, scratching at an eyebrow with the hand that wasn’t holding the wine.  He didn’t even notice that he wasn’t really breathing.

Tall, commandingly talented Florian Weil with his beautiful boy.  With Harry.

It didn’t hit home until Florian placed a gentle hand on the nape of Harry’s neck at the end of the story.  And Louis was broken.

He set his mother’s drink on a table before fleeing out the rear entrance of the hall, almost breaking into a sprint when he reached the deserted lobby.  His breath was coming in deep, jagged pulls, but he wasn’t getting any air; he needed to get to the bathroom.  He was going to vomit.

He’d been in near constant pain for the past several weeks, but it had never been quite this visceral, all-consuming and intense.  Louis felt the hurt so deep it was like it was in his bone marrow.

_My beautiful, beautiful boy,_ he thought with a strangled sob as he burst into the last of the stalls in the dank bathroom.  He bent over the toilet, spitting into it and struggling to regain control of his breathing.   _I love him so much._

All he could think about was Florian’s hands on Harry’s body, moving over the velvet-soft skin of his torso.  He couldn’t stop picturing Florian reaching up to cup Harry’s jaw, stroking his cheek before he leaned in to kiss him.   _No._  It was wrong.  All wrong.  Excruciating.

Louis leaned against the scummy tiles of the bathroom wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, the danger of throwing up having mercifully passed.  His throat was still thick with emotion, hot tears streaking his face.  He buried his head in his hands, unable to stop the onslaught of miserable thoughts.

Did Harry respond to Florian’s touch the same way he had to Louis’s?  Did he move into it, always?  Did he shiver and squirm so perfectly beneath Florian, beam up at him like he was lit from within?  Was Florian as careful with Harry as he should be?  Did he love Harry as much Louis did?  Was that even possible?  Did -- _oh God_ \-- did Harry love Florian back?  Did he love Florian’s body in the same reverent way he’d seemed to love Louis’s?

Louis nearly choked again, whimpering into his hands as the memories washed over him.  Harry kissing slowly down his spine, mouthing gently at his skin before peering up at him like he was something precious.  He’d looked at Louis like he loved him.

_Fuck.  Fuck._  Louis knocked his head back against the wall in frustration and despair.   _Harry._  Harry had maybe loved him and Louis had been too fucking scared to really believe or accept it.  Too insecure and weak.   _And now it’s too late.  You ruined it.  It’s too late; you’ve lost him._

He spent the next five minutes taking deep, slow breaths before he felt comfortable enough to stand.  His legs were wobbly when he got to his feet, and he careened out of the toilet stall and teetered over to the sinks to splash some water on his face.

“God,” he said with a humorless snort when he saw his reflection in the mirror.  His suit was terribly rumpled, eyes rimmed red, his skin oddly pale under the scruff of his beard.  He looked as pathetic as he felt.  “You are a disaster.”

He had no choice but to return to the party; his mum was probably already wondering where he’d got to.  He sighed and straightened out his suit jacket, dusted off his trousers.

_Just please,_ he thought, before he left the bathroom with shaking hands.   _Please let me get through this without making a fool of myself.  Please._

It was going to be an even longer night than he’d originally thought.

 

There was an intermission between Elgar’s _Enigma Variations_ and the Bruch concerto, the last piece of the night, presumably to give Louis a bit of extra time to mentally prepare for his solo performance.  Harry and Florian meandered out to the lobby of the Barbican to get a quick drink after the house lights came up.

“How _fashion-forward,_ Styles,” Florian said, smiling as he tugged a little on Harry’s headscarf while they waited in the queue for the bar.  He over-enunciated “fashion-forward” like he usually did when he was testing out a new English phrase on Harry.

Harry giggled and swatted Florian’s hand away.  He could remember times when Florian had done this exact same thing while practicing such vitally important phrases as “over the shoulder boulder holder,” "spoiler alert," "these are not the droids you're looking for," "what's cookin', good lookin'?" and "idk, my bff, Rose."  Harry loved to tease Flo about it, even though his English was infinitely better than the pathetic shambles that constituted Harry's German.  Florian didn't seem to mind.

“Are you going to tell me that my ex-boyfriend is a psychic, next?” he asked, grinning while Flo ordered them two beers.

Florian tossed his head back and let out a booming laugh, shoving at Harry’s shoulder.   _“Hau ab!”_

When they’d first met during Harry’s original stint in Berlin, Florian had taken Harry out for a night of heavy drinking to break the ice.  By the end, they’d been huddled together in a high-backed booth made of dark wood, sipping what must have been their ninth beers of the evening while Flo told Harry about how he’d had to break it off with his last girlfriend because she’d turned out to be a “psychic” and he just couldn’t handle it anymore.  This had led to great general confusion until Harry finally managed to figure out that Florian had meant to say “psycho.”  They’d had a very good laugh about it and then Harry had pointed out gently, but highly drunkenly, that this came across as fairly insensitive and maybe a bit sexist, especially because Florian tied her being a “psychic” to her frequent bouts of tears.  Florian must have appreciated Harry's honesty, because they’d been incredibly close ever since.

Harry felt a wistful little tug inside of him as they drifted away from the bar.  He’d just been kidding around, bringing up a beloved old joke; he hadn’t even intended it to be a reference to Louis.  Now that he’d said it, though, he’d gotten twisted up into another tangle of painful thoughts about the nature of their entire relationship.  He’d never even had the guts to tell Louis that he’d thought of him as his boyfriend to begin with… that he’d wanted to tell the whole world.

“He’s not, you know,” Florian said softly, after they’d stood in silence for a minute.

Harry raised his eyebrows, blinking slowly.

“Louis,” Florian explained, even though he knew that Harry already knew who he was referring to.  His lips quirked up a bit.  “He’s not a complete psychic.”

Harry gave a nervous, involuntary little laugh and swallowed hard, shrugging and staring down at his beer.

“I haven’t talked to him in years, and I only saw him from not so close, last night...” Florian went on, taking a sip of his lager, “but he -- he didn’t seem so Snotty Amati anymore, from what I saw."

_“Flo,”_ Harry said with a groan, his cheeks pink.  He was touched that Florian was being diplomatic about Louis, despite his misgivings, because he knew Harry still loved him.

Christ.  It had been so hard seeing Louis again.  It was even harder watching him on stage and not being up there with him.  It was always Harry’s deepest inclination to go to him, to want to be near him.  After everything, Louis was still, as always, the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

Florian looked at him with careful eyes.  He took a breath as though he were about to say something, but then shook his head.

“What?” Harry asked, wishing his heart wasn’t lifting with a strange sort of hope.  But it was.  Of course it was.

Florian sighed.  “I don’t know if this will make you feel any better -- ”  He paused, apparently unsure.  He shook his head again before he went on.  “So, I don’t know if I should say…  But I think he is hurting too, Harry.”

Harry nodded, his chest tightening as a small fizzle of adrenaline shot through him.  He worried his bottom lip and trained his eyes on the floor.  He had been so hyper-aware of Louis the night before, aware to the point that he knew Louis had been aware of him too, that they’d both been tracking the other's movements through the room as they orbited each other without making contact.  Louis had been subdued, withdrawn and almost skittish.  Harry had been trying his very, very best not to read into it, but the truth was that Louis had seemed sad, and Florian had noticed it too.

_I wish I could talk to him,_ Harry thought, squeezing the cheap plastic cup that the beer had come in.   _Just clear things up, once and for all.  Maybe just tell him.  Tell him once.  One time.  How -- how I felt.  How I feel.  Get an explanation..._  He didn’t know if he would ever be brave enough for that, though.  He’d barely made it back to London in the first place.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he whispered, as the lights flickered to signal that they should head back into the theater for the rest of the performance.

“Of course,” Florian said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder and frowning at him sternly, like he didn’t want him thinking he was being a burden.

Harry kept clenching and unclenching his fists as he and Florian filed back into Barbican Hall with the rest of the concertgoers.  He couldn’t help the nervousness he felt on Louis’s behalf.  Louis worked so hard, always.  He was so talented; he deserved all of the attention he was beginning to get.

Harry tensed slightly, his heartbeat picking up when Louis walked out onto the stage.  He looked gorgeous as ever, but this time in a haunted, almost tragically attractive sort of way, the cut of his cheekbones even more pronounced than normal.  He looked steely and determined, all angles.  Harry’s hands were trembling as he clapped.  His anxiety spiked after the applause died out and the maestro raised her arms to indicate that the performance was about to start.  He bit the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes.

It began.

Louis was technically flawless throughout the first two movements, the _vorspiel_ and the _adagio,_ but the emotional distance of his playing had Harry shifting and squirming in his seat, unable to stay still.  He sat on his hands to prevent himself from doing something absolutely ridiculous, like trying to communicate with Louis by conducting from the audience.  Urging him with his arm motions to feel the music, to feel it and express it like Harry knew he was capable of.  Florian kept shooting him concerned looks out of the corner of his eye.

_Where are you?_ Harry thought, as the _adagio_ ended. _Where have you gone, Louis?_

He felt the imminent danger as soon as the second theme of the final movement began.  Louis had played the initial, more energetic melody efficiently and powerfully, but with the same emotional detachment as he had the rest of the piece.  As he started on the second -- the slower and more romantic of the two -- Louis’s emotions finally broke through, a flash of the incredible brilliance he’d displayed when he’d performed the Dvořák.

Harry’s eyes flew open, and he gazed at Louis up on the stage.  Louis had actually been present the whole time, he realized with a jolt.  That had been the root of the problem.  Louis hadn’t been able to give up conscious control and let the music flow through him.  Now that he’d finally let go, Harry was seized by an incredible fear that Louis was careening toward disaster.  That he’d let muscle and emotional memory take over to a point where he was no longer truly mentally present.  That Louis would inevitably come back into himself and have lost the thread of the music entirely, that his body was too far ahead of his mind.  Out of sync.  That this dizzying emotional height was unsustainable.

_Careful, darling.  Please be careful._

Harry’s fingers closed tightly over Florian’s forearm on their shared armrest, his other hand coming up to cover his mouth.

There was a false start, one hiccuping, missed note that had Harry’s heart shooting up into his throat before Louis briefly found the melody again.  But then it was all over.  Louis lost it, this time finally and completely.  His bow slid awkwardly across all four of his violin strings before it fell limply to his side.

The audience sat in stunned silence.  The orchestra continued to play for several more measures as Louis stared blankly out at the crowd, probably blinded by the spotlight.  He looked shell-shocked and desolate, almost like he didn’t even know where he was.

_Louis, oh, Louis._

Louis fled the stage.

Harry was barely aware of what happened in the aftermath.  The orchestra must have stopped playing at some point.  There must have been a collective gasp and a buzz of confused discussion around him, but to Harry all of that was unimportant, irrelevant white noise.

_I have to get to him.  I have to get to him,_ was all he could think.

Harry was out of his seat before he’d even fully processed what had happened.

 

Louis knew he was walking, but he couldn’t feel his legs move.  He heard the orchestra shudder to a confused halt behind him, strings rasping, horns groaning like a herd of bewildered cows as a lone bassoonist continued to play after everyone else had cut off.  He passed quickly through the wings, shouldering aside the heavy black curtains and trying to shut out the chatter that was swirling around the hall.  People whispering, questions being asked in high, demanding tones.  Louis strode to the backstage door, Thunder shaking in his hands, and closed it just as Lucinda Price began to apologize into the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

He escaped into the hallway before he could hear any more.   _Oh, God.  Oh, shit._  Louis could feel his pulse throbbing dully in his neck as he swayed on his feet, putting a hand out to the wall to brace himself.  A wracking sob escaped him, but it was dry.  It hurt his throat.   _Shit.  Why can’t I…  Harry…_  His eyes suddenly teared up, face crumpling as he stumbled down the hallway into a tiny janitorial cupboard.  He shut himself in and sat down heavily on an overturned plastic bucket, knuckles brushing the smooth back of his violin.   _Fuck, fuck.  It’s over._  He nearly choked when he realized, all the years, the wasted years.  The waste of the past three weeks without Harry, which somehow seemed like a worse tragedy than two and a half decades of single-minded practice and sacrifice and dedication to an instrument that could never love him back.   _It’s over,_ he thought again. _I’m over._

Louis cried, cradling his violin.  He traced its curves with his fingertips, trying to remember the feel of Harry’s skin.  The dip at the bottom of his spine, the soft bow of his lips.  His inked collarbones.  But all he could touch was hard wood, and all he had was his career.  He’d have to leave the LSO, of course.  He’d find some job, somewhere, probably in the back of a second-rate orchestra near the harpist and the tubular bells, but he’d never be a concertmaster again.  He’d never play another solo.  Even if Grimshaw wanted him to stay after this, he knew he couldn’t do it.

_Not without Harry._

Louis sucked in a shuddering breath, feeling heavy in his chest and a little congested from crying.  He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it -- he’d been so afraid of losing his musical ability, of losing his position to Eleanor, that he’d snapped and said the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.  And he’d lost Harry instead.  Harry, who had managed to bring something out in him that Louis had given up on finding within himself years ago.   _My Harry._

He choked back another sob, because Harry wasn’t _his_ Harry anymore.  He was with Florian now, and whether or not they belonged to each other in the same ethereal yet incredibly physical, scraped-knees-on-concrete tangible way that Louis had belonged to Harry, he no longer had a right.  His job now was to step back.  That was the most, and best, he could do. 

Louis felt his heart breaking again, the ache in his bones crescendoing until his entire body became the white, foamy crest on a wave of emotional pain stronger than anything he’d ever experienced.  _Harry…_  God, he’d been in the audience.  Louis almost stopped breathing.   _I wonder how ashamed he is of me.  Because now -- now he finally sees.  He has to!  That I’m a mediocre musician who just managed to fool everyone for a while, somehow, and that I’m not good enough for him.  In no universe could I ever be what he deserves._  Louis was trembling; he tried to still himself.   _Even if I hadn’t been awful, he’d have left eventually.  I’m not enough._

It didn’t feel like the kind of self-pity that Louis sometimes indulged in, hugging his chin to his knees in the dark and imagining that someone (usually his mother) was arguing against him, telling him that no, no, he had it all wrong.  He was better than mediocre.  He was a lovely person.  He was a great violinist who deserved all the faith everyone had put in him.  But,

_I’m not good enough for him.  I wasn’t at seventeen, and I’m not at thirty._  That statement felt like fact.  Cold and hard, a lump in his throat.  No one popped up in Louis’s imagination to say anything different.  He’d proven it, after all.  Over and over again.

Louis stayed there, unable to move.  His chest was shuddering, his breathing erratic and painful; he couldn’t stop crying.  Wheezing, hot gasps mixed with the smell of cleaning chemicals and Louis wished he could just live here forever, in the dark by himself.  It’s where he belonged.  His diaphragm was beginning to ache, his throat throbbing as he wiped his streaming nose sloppily on his tux.

Then he heard a knock at the door.

“Louis?”  There was a muffled voice.

Louis’s heart quailed as he tried to be quiet.  He didn’t want to see anyone like this.  He couldn’t.  Especially not -- not...

“Are you in there?  Louis?”  The voice had an Irish accent.  Louis deflated a bit, felt the panic leave him as he slumped over his knees.

“Yeah,” he croaked.  “Please don’t come in.”

“Okay.”  There was a pause.  Louis could feel Niall’s presence on the other side of the door, could see the shadows of his feet.  He felt suffocated by it.  Niall hadn’t talked to him in a couple of weeks, not since the incident at the Old Red Cow.  Louis wasn’t sure why he was here now, why he’d come to find him in a cupboard.

“Are you ill?” Niall asked.

“No,” Louis replied, a little sharply.  He covered another hiccupping sob with a cough, wondering miserably if there were any way he could just disappear into thin air.

“Everyone’s asking…” said Niall.  “We -- We’re all worried about you, mate.”

“Fuck off.”  Louis felt awful, but he didn’t have anything else to lose, really, and no other way to express himself.  God, he’d never expressed himself well, had he?  Never.  Not with words, not with…  He clutched his violin tighter and tried to breathe.

“Not gonna fuck off,” Niall sighed.  “And I’m sorry for being a twat to you.  Not that ye didn’t deserve it, a bit.”

Louis managed a watery laugh.  “I _know,”_ he choked out.  “Believe me, Horan, I know exactly how much I deserved it.  Still deserve it.”

“Right.”  Niall leaned on the door, and Louis didn’t feel quite as smothered.  “Do you want to…  I dunno, talk?  Get out of here, get a pint.”

Louis groaned.  “No.  I mean…  I’m sorry.  I just want to go home.  I want to sit in this dank fucking cupboard until everyone’s gone and then I want to go home and never come back and never see any of you again for the entire rest of my life.”

Niall chuckled under his breath.  “See, I knew ye were a right fraidy-cat.”

“Yes, you’re very smart.”

They fell into a companionable silence then, broken only by another hiccuping fit and the sound of Louis sniffling softly.  His brain had turned to mush -- that’s what it felt like, at least, like all of the thoughts he had were tepid and inconsistent.  He just wanted to go home and die.  But he also wanted to stay in the cupboard forever; didn’t want anyone to see him.  And under all of the fatigue and embarrassment, his heart ached.

“Lou,” Niall said, lowly, a note of concern in his usually bright voice.  “Harry’s walking down the hall toward me.”

“Please d-don’t tell him I’m in here,” Louis whispered.  “I -- please, I can’t.”  His words were broken, desperate.  “Not now.  I know I’m a coward, but please, Niall.” 

Then he heard Harry’s voice on the other side of the door, the low diphthong drawl of it, and shut his eyes, barely breathing.  He squeezed out silent tears as he listened.

“Have you seen…  Do you know, um…”  Harry gulped, and Louis could almost see him shifting uncertainly, clasping his hands behind his back, long legs knock-kneed, toes pointed in.

“I’ve been looking for him too,” Niall said.  “Seems to have scarpered.”

“Is he --” Harry’s voice hitched, the pitch going a bit high and trembly as Louis grimaced.  He felt snot and saltwater dry on his cheeks, fresh tears rolling down established tracks.  The sound of Harry in distress sent pain knifing through his heart.  “Is he okay, Niall?  Has he been okay?”

Niall didn’t say anything.  Louis wondered if he were shaking his head, or lowering his eyes.  Harry got the message, though.

“Um,” he started.  Louis heard him shuffle about, cough into a fist.  “If you see him, could you tell him I…”

Louis couldn’t breathe.  There were lead weights on his chest; his lungs were collapsing. 

“... Never mind,” Harry said, finally.  “Just, never mind.”

Then he walked off; Louis could hear the short heels of his boots tapping down the hallway.  He let out a rush of air and breathed in again immediately, nostrils flaring.  “Oh, God.”

“I think you should talk to him, Louis,” Niall said softly, his head to the door.  “You could go find him.  Make it all right.”

Louis shook his head, sniffing and wiping under his swollen eyelids.  “There’s nothing that can make this right,” he murmured.  “I mean… I’ll find some way to apologize to him, I hope.  Someday.  If I can get up the --” he laughed weakly.  He thought of Florian, of how happy Harry had looked with him at the party.  The very last thing he wanted to do was step on any toes.  Harry deserved to be happy like that.

“Mate, I really think --”

“I’ll die before I hurt him again, Niall,” said Louis.   _And that’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?  Right now, in the end._  “I can’t risk it.”  Louis’s voice was firm for the first time during their conversation.  His mushy mind had finally latched onto a real, worthy idea, and he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Oh,” Niall murmured.  Louis heard him take a deep breath.  “Okay.  Do you want to…”

“Just leave, please,” Louis said.  “I’ll be fine.  I just need…”

“Yeah.”  Niall spoke softly, gave the door a couple of comforting raps with his knuckles and then Louis could hear him striding off.

He hunkered down again, feeling damp and muffled and weak.  His violin was on his lap, a little wet from his tears.  Louis thought vaguely that it couldn’t be good for it, for the centuries-old wood. _I don’t care,_ he thought firmly.   _Fuck it.  Fuck the entire Amati family and fuck craftsmanship and fuck music._  A few seconds later he sighed and stripped his tux jacket off, pulling the stiff cuff of his dress shirt over his hand so that he could gently wipe the instrument down with his soft cotton sleeve.

“Hate that I love you,” he muttered.

It would probably be a while before all of the curious audience members had filtered out of the lobby, to say nothing of Louis’s nosy colleagues who had access to the building and would certainly be faux-casually hanging around later than normal, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.  Gossiping with each other.  Trading theories.  Louis groaned.  He wondered if the LSO would have to refund tickets.   _God, what a mess._

But it was a mess he would start dealing with tomorrow.  Now, he waited.

* 

“Louis William Tomlinson, where do you think you’re going?  Have you practiced your _Csárdás_ yet?”

“Er...”  Louis stood awkwardly halfway up the stairs, grass stains on his knees and twigs in his hair, dirty socks drooping and puddling in his trainers.  His mother was glaring at him from the doorway to the kitchen in their cramped Doncaster home, hands on her hips, which was never a good sign.  “I practiced it yesterday,” he shrugged, feeling his cheeks begin to heat up.  He knew as soon as it was out of his mouth that it wasn’t going to be an acceptable answer.

“And do you think that’s good enough?” Jay asked.  She looked harried and worn-out, preoccupied with things Louis really didn’t want to let into his head.  He felt a small stab of helpless worry.

“Em…”  He used one of his toes to scratch at a bug bite on his other ankle.  “... no?  But I was only out for a few hours; all my mates were going to the park to play footie, and...”

“All of your mates aren’t _you,_ Louis.  They don’t have your potential; they don’t have your talent.”  Jay walked over and clutched the railing, peering up at him, the disappointment in her voice palpable though it was mixed with hope and love, a fierce desire to see her son succeed.  “They can afford to fritter away an afternoon because they’ve got nothing better on.  But you’re meant for greater things.  All you have to do is apply yourself.  You’ve got to _apply yourself,_ son, are you listening to me?”

Louis sighed and nodded, and looked down at his hands.  They’d had this conversation before, and now that the fights with Dad were getting worse, he didn’t want to upset his mum.  He truly didn’t.  He knew how much she’d sacrificed to even give him lessons, let alone his violin.  And he really did love violin, loved it more than footie, more than anything.  Guilt washed through him and he resolved (for the fiftieth time) to do better.  To make himself better for her.

“Now I want you to go up to your room and practice for a full hour.  Earn your dinner.  You have the recital on Friday, remember, and you have to be perfect to impress Mr. Hall.”

He nodded.  “Yes, Mum.” 

“And then after dinner you’re going to sit down and write me a one-page essay on why it is important to practice every single day.  Not _some_ days.  Not _most_ days.  But every single day.”

“Okay,” he replied in a small voice, and trudged upstairs with heavy feet.

_Why It Is Importent To Practice EVERY Day_

_by Louis William Tomlinson_

_It is really importent to practice every day because practicing is how you can get better at playing your instrument.  If I had never practiced my vioiln, I wouldn’t know the different positions or how to do slurs or stackatto or all the fingerings.  My teacher taught me that stuff in my lessons but then I had to practice them a lot at home so that I could do them by myself and that is why it is really really importent to practice.  Now I can do them, but I know I can do them better if I aply myself._

_I’m going to appley myself.  I’m going to practice every day even if it is nice outside and even Sundays (but I will go to church with you too because that’s only an hour) because I need to fufill my potential.  I promise to practice every single day from now on and I will be perfect to impress Mr. Hall I REALLY promise, Mum.  I will work on trills too.  I promise to even practice on my birthday and on Christmas._

*

Louis wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he finally stood up, stretching his sore joints and cracking his back.  He hadn’t heard anyone in the hallway for a while -- maybe the coast was finally clear.  Or maybe he’d be stepping out of the cupboard into a firing squad.  Either way, his normal restless energy was coming back to him, urging him to move.  He had to put Thunder away; he had to go home.  He couldn’t stay in this limbo forever.

Cautiously, Louis cracked open the door.  The hallway was deserted, the lights dimmed.  “Thank God,” he whispered.

He tiptoed backstage to where he’d left his empty violin case, and found it sitting undisturbed across the seats of two folding chairs.  Quickly and silently, he settled Thunder into the soft velvet and zipped him up, deciding to take him home for the night so that he could practice the Bruch again straightaway in the morning -- in case he got a second chance to perform it.  Louis sighed.  He hoped…  Well, he wasn’t sure, anymore.  He’d been going back and forth in the cupboard, and he really was not sure if he could step out onto the Barbican stage again.

But practicing was at least something he knew he could do.

Louis’s heart leapt into his throat every time he turned a corner, but he saw no one backstage or in the labyrinthine hallways that led out to the lobby.  He kept his head down, praying that everyone had gone home and that he could just quietly step out and hail a cab.   _Please let the lobby be empty,_ he thought as he approached the door.   _Please let it be big and empty and dark._

His hand was reaching out for the push bar when he heard voices.  Two voices, both intensely familiar to him.  One rumbled like far-off thunder, low and deliberate; it was the second time tonight he’d listened to it through a door.  The other was high and bright and much like his own.  He stopped.

“Can’t say it wasn’t memorable.  Not like my son to give a boring performance, at least.”  That was his mum speaking.  She was trying to sound pleasant in front of Harry, Louis could tell, but there was a forced, showy veneer over her conversation, a false chuckle that sounded awfully familiar.  It was how he found himself speaking sometimes, when his guard was up.

“Louis’s nothing if not memorable,” Harry said softly.  Carefully.  There was a bit of a defensive edge there, too, Louis realized.  It wasn’t something he had heard much when they were together.

“The Bruch was a good choice for him,” Jay continued.  “What you really don’t want is to give him a meditative piece; you know, ask him to convey real emotion.  Never fully grasped that, I’m afraid.”  She laughed harshly, was about to say something else but cut herself off.  “Taggie, Petey!” she crowed.  Louis closed his eyes as she greeted the Diversey-Petersheims a bit too jovially.

There were other doors he could slip out of.  For a moment he thought about walking away.

“Oh, Jay,” one of them said.  Louis couldn’t tell which; he didn’t know them well enough.  “Have you seen Louis?  Poor thing.”

“How terrible, really,” the other one chimed in.  “I feel just awful for him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jay replied, breezily.  She was talking too fast, trying desperately to spackle over Louis’s failure with a lot of lighthearted words.  Like he was some hole in the wall of her life that she was ashamed of, and needed to distance herself from.  “He’s always been temperamental,” she said.  “Always a little bit of a drama queen -- especially when he was younger.”  She sighed, and Louis imagined her shrugging on the other side of the door, a _Well, I did my best_ expression on her face.  Then she giggled again.  “The only part of having a solo career that he’s got down pat is being a diva.”

Louis’s breath hitched as he heard a smattering of uncomfortable laughter from the group -- not from Harry.  Maybe he’d walked away.  Louis leaned his forehead against the door.  He was choking in his starched collar, sweat soaking his underarms and making his skin feel itchy.   _Mum,_ he groaned in his mind.   _Just leave it._

“But he’s so talented, your son,” Petey or Taggie said.   _They probably think she wants to hear that._  “We all know how talented he is.”

“Let’s be honest, though,” Jay replied sweetly.  “He’s really not cut out for this sort of thing.  He doesn’t have that extra… _it,_ do you know what I mean?  That X factor.  I’m afraid after that lovely fluke of a Dvořák, people aren’t being honest with him.  They’re asking him for things he can’t give.  As a mother, that’s what has _me_ concerned.”

“Well…”  Louis could tell that the other two women were unsure how to respond.  His mum was probably smiling at them disarmingly.  She so desperately did not want to appear biased, definitely not around industry people and usually not in private, either.  Refused to ever have the wool pulled over her eyes about Louis, not even a little bit.   _Never just proud of me.  Nope.  Always something to critique._

“He’s not like Harry, here,” Jay said in her bright, fake voice.  “You were _born_ a star, weren’t you?  Charming people in the cradle, I bet.  Not everyone can be like that; I hate mothers who fool themselves into thinking their offspring are special.  No, Louis was always a bit too serious, a bit too hard.”

Louis heard Harry clear his throat, deep in his chest.  (So he hadn’t walked away…)

“He’s hard on himself.”

Louis’s breath caught, heart thumping painfully behind his ribs as he melted into the door.  Harry was right there, right on the other side of it.   _I love you, sweetheart.  God, I-I want..._  Louis bit his lip to keep from saying the words out loud.  He was still afraid, and the image of Florian’s hand on the back of Harry’s neck flashed through his mind.

“Hmm?” Jay asked.  There was a note of automatic skepticism in her tone.

“He’s incredibly hard on himself,” Harry said.  “And, um, personally,” he cleared his throat to address the whole group, “I think anyone who’s truly been paying attention to Louis wouldn’t consider the Dvořák a fluke.  It’s like…  It’s more like a really wonderful promise of just how great he could be, given the right support.  He’s already amazing.  I think he just needs a little help sometimes to see it.”

There was a pause, and Louis’s head was spinning.  He felt as though he were floating off the ground, woozy and weak on his legs for a moment.

“Let’s be realistic, though...”

“No, I am,” Harry insisted.  “I am being realistic.”  His voice was rough, lower and much firmer than usual.  Louis felt a shiver run through him; it was almost like how he’d spoken to him in his office after the first performance of _Don Juan,_ and _oh, God…_  “You’re pretending that what you’re saying is just common sense, putting on this show because you’re trying to save face, Jay, but in the meantime you’re actually the one who’s ignoring what’s right in front of you.  Louis _is_ special.  He is a world-class musician.  That’s the reality.  He’s incredibly…  Christ.  If you don’t think your son is capable of expressing emotion, you obviously don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

Then he stalked off across the lobby, his feet hitting the red carpet loud enough to hear.  Louis’s hand trembled against the wood.  His body felt galvanized and weak at the same time, nerves howling, head aching with muffled beats.  He was totally wrung out emotionally, just wanted to slip down to the floor and hug himself and cry.   _Harry Styles..._

Louis heard low muttering in the lobby -- his mother, Taggie and Petey discussing Harry’s outburst, too softly for him to make out any individual words.  He let them fade away, instead remembering in a flash something Harry had said to him at his house, just before he’d left for good.  Louis had been looking down at a dark splotch on the arm of his sofa at the time, couldn’t look at Harry, _no, couldn’t bear to see him, thought he wasn’t choosing me..._  Instead he’d studied the stained upholstery intently, trying to remember if he’d spilled Guinness or Pepsi on it.

He couldn’t picture Harry’s face in that moment, but now his words came back to him.

_“I want to be on your side so much, always.”_

Louis had heard that, and had wondered what it really meant.  How could Harry want to be on his side if he was moving halfway across the continent?

_“And no matter how hard I try, you don’t want me there.”_

But the thing that had just happened, that was what Harry meant.  Harry was on Louis’s side, always.  Always.  Louis finally understood.

“He thought it was me who did the choosing,” he whispered to himself.  “He thought I didn’t want him in London.”

_Fuck._

His legs started to move and again he couldn’t feel them.  Didn’t quite have control over them.  He burst through the door into the lobby, looking around wildly, begging the universe for a glimpse of curly hair and pigeon toes.  Nothing.  Just his mum, still wrapped up in conversation.  She saw him, made an aborted gesture with her hand, opened her mouth to call out to him, but he just shook his head and strode past her, Thunder thumping heavily against his thigh.

Louis broke into a jog as he neared the exit.  Maybe Harry was still waiting for a cab.  Maybe he was only half a block away, walking toward the tube.  Louis put all his weight into pushing the heavy glass door open and stumbled outside into the fresh air.  Weak yellow light pooled around streetlamps.  His footsteps echoed on the cement as he rushed up to the curb, and then his heart stopped.

There was Harry.  There he was, curls tied up in a headscarf.

He was climbing into the back of a taxi, Florian right behind him, hand on the small of his back.

_Shit._

All the energy drained from Louis’s limbs.  Fresh tears pricked at his raw, tingling eyes as he drew in a deep breath and watched the door shut, watched them drive away together.  Harry was with Florian.  It was too late.

_And I meant what I said to Niall,_ Louis thought.   _I can’t ever risk hurting him again.  If he’s happy now, I’m not…  I’m not going to…_

He’d meant to turn around and go back inside, speak to his mother.  But Louis found himself walking toward Barbican Station instead.  His joints ached, and pain came throbbing back into his head.  He rode the tube home, trying not to stare at his reflection in the dark window as the sodium lights zipped by between the platforms, tiles blurring into each other with each start and stop.

_I have to do something, though.  I have to do something._

There was rhythm in it. _I have to do something._

Suddenly a melody for cello sprang up in Louis’s head, a visual of the soft glow behind Harry’s curls as he’d ducked into the cab.  His breath caught, his fingers automatically flying over his knees as he imagined the notes.  Green eyes floated up out of the dim tunnel, and more threads suggested themselves.  Louis felt like he was weaving; he wanted to get this down, he needed a pencil, fuck…

He nearly missed his stop, pounded up the steps and dashed the remaining few blocks to his house, panting heavily in his too-warm jacket.  He was afraid he would forget some of it, afraid he would lose the orchestration that was growing like a thicket behind the main theme.  But it was still there, crystal clear as he sank down into the office chair next to his bed and pulled a drawer open, searching for loose leaf staff paper.

It was too much, was the problem.  There were Harry’s curls, Harry’s eyes, yes…  And something else.  Some other, higher melody.  One that didn’t suggest a low, rough voice, and he had no idea where it was coming from.  “God.”  Louis slumped over the hastily-scribbled notes, rubbing his weak eyes in the light from his desk lamp.  “What am I going to do with this?”

He tried to keep the two themes separate for a while, tried to ignore how complementary they were.  It was almost midnight before he finally realized he’d been writing a duet.

_It’s me,_ he realized, arm freezing mid-notation.   _The second theme._  His heart stopped.   _I mean, no…  It’s for violin, the other part; that’s all I mean._

He tried not to think about it, after that.  Just let it come to him until he wasn’t sure where he was anymore, whether he was in his own room or flying somewhere over a dark ocean.  Flying over the Channel.  And while his head kept it out, his heart beat with it.

_This is us.  This is us._

At some point, an orange sunrise crept up Louis’s back.  He didn’t notice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addy said this in our email thread about this chapter and I wanted to include it here: "ahahaha oh jesus. poor mothers. they always get the blame." It's true.
> 
> The LSO plays the [Enigma Variations](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5y4Hwwb8as) by Elgar during this concert. Here's a quote from Wikipedia about the most famous variation, "Nimrod," that is a bit relevant to what is going on in the story:
> 
> Augustus J. Jaeger was employed as music editor by the London publisher Novello & Co. For a long time he was a close friend of Elgar, giving him useful advice, but also severe criticism, something Elgar greatly appreciated. Remarkably, Elgar later related on several occasions how Jaeger had encouraged him as an artist and had stimulated him to continue composing despite setbacks. The name of the variation refers to Nimrod, an Old Testament patriarch described as "a mighty hunter before the Lord" – the name Jäger being German for hunter. In 1904 Elgar told Dora Penny (“Dorabella”) that this variation is not really a portrait, but "the story of something that happened". Once, when Elgar had been very depressed and was about to give it all up and write no more music, Jaeger had visited him and encouraged him to continue composing. He referred to Ludwig van Beethoven, who had a lot of worries, but wrote more and more beautiful music. “And that is what you must do”, Jaeger said and he sang the theme of the second movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 8 "Pathétique". Elgar disclosed to Dora that the opening bars of "Nimrod" were made to suggest that theme. “Can’t you hear it at the beginning? Only a hint, not a quotation."
> 
> Finally, the [Bruch](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urw49mfNV_0). Louis has his breakdown partway through the third movement.


	11. Chapter 11

Louis wrote.  He felt out of his body, possessed by a manic energy that refused to let him rest.  The piece was expanding before him in two parallel lines: bass clef and treble clef meeting, flirting, playing off each other.   _What -- what are you doing in here?_  Louis could sense the tension between them right away, the spark.   _This is my office._  The two themes not only completed each other but generated more, somehow, than the sum of the notes on the page.  A strange, lovely friction.  Like a chemical reaction, Louis could feel the music heating up under his hands.

_Apparently you’re the one stalking me._

Louis rubbed the back of his neck as his pencil flew across staff paper, humming a bit of the orchestration to himself as he gradually deepened the interaction between the two principals.  His eyes felt itchy and raw, contacts beginning to blur as he blinked down at his work.  He ignored everything but the music in his head.

 _I’m not trying to…_ seduce _you or something, you know._

The heat of the sun prickled up Louis’s spine and over his shoulder blades as he squirmed in his chair, barely aware of the fact that he was still in his tuxedo shirt and trousers.  He absentmindedly removed his cummerbund.  There was a lot left to write.

_I can’t go on like this.  I-I want…_

_You know what I fucking want, Styles._

Louis drew in a shuddering breath, his hand starting to shake as he heard the violin and cello play together for the first time.  The strongest part of the melody, in unison, no longer dancing around each other.  The orchestra rose up under them, supporting their twin climax, and then…

Then, something sweet.  A quiet, romantic theme that felt like rain in the city, turning everything fresh and green and holy.

_It’s so good with you, always.  Always._

_My beautiful boy._

The tip of Louis’s pencil broke and he gasped, staring for a long moment at the tiny, perfectly splintered shards of graphite before he buried his head in his hands and let himself feel it.  His breath was ragged and his shoulders shook, but he didn’t cry.  There were no more tears left in his body; he was dry heaving.  He felt everything.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Louis raised his head, coming to the dull realization that he must have missed morning rehearsal.  He fumbled for it, registering Nick Grimshaw’s name before he accepted the call.

“H-hello?” he said, shakily.

He nodded through most of the conversation, listening in silence to Grimmy ramble on in a comforting tone about how it would probably be in everyone’s best interest if Louis agreed to take a leave of absence from the LSO.  Louis felt numbness washing over him, suddenly.  An odd omission of feeling that rushed in to replace the pain.

“Not for too long,” Nick assured him, in a suspiciously fake voice that made Louis’s stomach sink.  “Just a month or two.  Take a mental break, rest up, give the, ah…  Well, let everything die down a bit.”

Louis cleared his throat.  “The Bruch?” he asked.  He felt weak, like he couldn’t get out a coherent sentence.  “Who… who’s going to…”

“Eleanor will take over all of your duties temporarily.  She assured me that she’s up on the Bruch and more than capable of performing it in your place tonight and tomorrow.”

 _Of course she is._  Louis swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob harshly in his dry throat.

“Right,” he answered.  “That sounds, um…  She’ll do a good job.”

There was an awkward silence after that, just the faint drone of the connection coming over the line.  Louis, for once, was at a total loss for words.  He just stared sadly down at the part of the rough draft where his pencil had broken, the beginning of something rotten and atonal and utterly void of pleasure.  Finally Grimshaw coughed, and said, “Right, well…  Let’s speak again sometime next week.”

“Yes,” Louis whispered, voice raspy.  “Goodbye, Mr. Grimshaw.”

The call ended and Louis dropped his phone listlessly on the desk.  He ran a hand through his floppy brown hair.  It was beginning to get greasy.  He hadn’t showered; he hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.  He might have just been fired from his job.  More than ever, he felt like a mess who couldn’t take care of himself.

 _How did I ever function without him?_ he wondered.   _Fuck._  Louis swept his arms out, examining the noxious sweat patches under his arms and his general disheveled appearance.   _He’d never want me back.  He’d never want_ this _version of me._

He was about to slump back into his chair and collapse under a wave of self-pity when a new melody came to him.  It had been part of the counterpoint to the cello, just another thread running through the tapestry of the romantic theme, but it suddenly burst into Louis’s head as a melody in its own right.  He scrambled to sharpen his pencil and get it down on a different sheet of paper.

_I want to be on your side.  I’m always on your side._

Louis drew a slow breath and put his pencil down again.  He was starting to feel the ache in his fingers.  Tiredness was finally creeping in.  “I hope you know what you’ve got, Florian Weil,” he whispered.  Then he shoved himself away from his desk, peeling off stale clothing as he walked to the shower.  His contacts came out; water and soap washed away the layer of dried sweat.  Louis wondered whether he would have the strength to go to Harry, if Florian weren’t a factor.  He was still so scared of hurting him again -- not today, maybe, not this month.  But someday, in the future.   _I’ve hurt Harry Styles enough for one lifetime,_ he thought, as he collapsed into bed.

_Now I’m meant to hurt._

Harry brought his arms down, gazing absently at the cello section for a moment before he collected his thoughts and released the Philharmonic from rehearsal.

 _"Gute Arbeit,"_ he said as they quietly filtered out of the practice hall.  " _Bis morgen."_   At least his German was getting better.

Harry flexed his bicep, feeling a slight soreness from having just conducted them through a full run-through of John Fould’s _Three Mantras._  Their playing had been professional and precise, and they had responded admirably to his direction through the small language barrier that still existed.  Their faces were finally beginning to become familiar; day by day, Harry was getting to know them better.  But there was still something about them, their style, that Harry found uncomfortably uniform.  Each player was so obedient, so ready to mould him or herself to the group, that no one stood out.  There was no Gladys Howard, with her firm strength that anchored Niall’s mellowness and made the French horns as a whole sound deep and wonderfully rich.  No Gerald Courtenay, whose odd, rough intonation lent some much-needed texture to the LSO’s string section.

There was definitely no Louis Tomlinson.  No brilliant voice, no brilliant tone, no center.  Harry found that it was hard to keep his head in the music without someone to challenge him.  Florian was a wonderful violinist, but even he calmly and graciously accepted Harry’s corrections, and allowed himself to blend into his unified section.  Harry just didn’t feel the spark of inspiration that had made his three concert cycles with the LSO such a success.  Not without Louis.

 _When am I going to stop loving him?_ Harry wondered, stepping down from his podium and sliding the thick stack of annotated music off his stand.   _Maybe I deserve this.  I should have told him.  I should have told him every day._

His fingers itched for his bow.  He’d been playing a lot in the week since he’d returned to Berlin with his cello, wishing more than ever that he were a musician again.  He loved conducting.  He didn’t want to stop, not completely, but…   _God,_ there was nothing like actually producing the sounds.  Nothing like the friction of horsehair on strings, the soft slap of fingers and the low resonance of vibrato as Harry milked a note out of thin air.  It was truly magic.  And Harry needed it, now.

He tucked his score firmly under his arm as he walked in the direction of his office.  He’d scheduled a bit of time after rehearsal every day to arrange his thoughts and make notes for the next session, but today he felt incredibly dull.  He ended up just dumping the papers on his desk and locking the door behind him, desperate for some fresh air.  Arms swinging, he took the stairs two at a time and burst out into the street, feeling like a bird escaping from a cage.

“Harry!”  Florian’s voice cut through the sound of traffic as Harry turned onto Tiergartenstraße, walking under the shade of the leafy green trees that bordered the park.  He turned around, hair blown into his eyes by the wind.  “Hi!   _Wie geht es dir?”_

“Hi,” he nodded, shrugging.   _“Gut.”_

“Anja is meeting me down here,” Florian explained.  “She said to invite you to dinner; there is a little cafe by the…”  He trailed off, eyes flicking quickly over the blank expression on Harry’s face.

“Sure,” Harry replied.  “That sounds nice.”

“Are you okay?  You look…”  Florian waved his hand expressively, searching up one of his English expressions.  “... like chopped liver.”

Harry cracked a genuine smile -- the wildly varying hipness levels of Flo’s slang terms would always amuse him -- and he saw the violinist visibly relax.  “‘S nothing,” he said.  “I’d love to come to dinner.  Probably been spending too much time by myself the past couple of days, anyway.”

Florian laughed.  “Ohhh, are you lonely, _Herr_ Harry?”

Harry pouted his lip and walked into a hug, head down.  He felt his curls being patted in a friendly manner and felt a little bit warmer.   _“Na, schön,”_ said Florian, “Anja wants to ask your opinion on decorations for the nursery.  I believe she’s bringing fabric swatches.”

Harry hummed an acknowledgement and they walked together toward the cafe, the soft shadows of leaves moving across their faces.  After a few blocks of silence, Flo cleared his throat.  When he spoke, it sounded like something he’d been thinking about saying for a while.

“You are scared of him.”

Harry whipped his head sideways to stare at Florian.  “I was never scared of loving him,” he said.  The words came out dry and painful, and Harry almost winced at the rush of emotion he felt behind them.  He knitted his eyebrows together in stormy frustration and dropped his gaze to the sidewalk.  Florian put a hand gingerly up to his elbow.

“But you said you never told him.  I thought maybe, when you got up and rushed backstage…”  Florian looked at him meaningfully.

“He was gone before I could find him,” Harry shrugged.  He turned to stare out at the park, the wide stretch of vibrant green in the middle of the city.  Behind them, golden light glinted off the Philharmonie.

“And what would you have said to him?” Florian asked.  “Honestly.”

“I-” Harry’s throat tightened as he thought about how he’d been on the verge of asking Niall to tell Louis that he loved him, before chickening out at the last moment.  “If I saw him again,” he said, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair, “I’d tell him.”  He nodded.  “I’d tell him.” _I really would._

“Okay,” Flo said softly, patting him on the shoulder as they approached the cafe.  Anja was already there in her large sunglasses, sitting at a charming table outside and sipping lemonade.

“You are the most glamorous pregnant lady in the entire world,” Harry grinned, as she stood up to kiss him on the cheek.

 _“Halt die Klappe!”_ she snorted, obviously pleased.

Florian grabbed her around the waist, softly and adoringly moving his hands over her belly.  Harry watched them, a lump forming in his throat as they looked at each other with love in their eyes.  They didn’t need to tell each other anything.  It had already been said.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

 

Louis finished the piece on Thursday afternoon.  He’d been writing and revising, crossing out and starting again almost nonstop since he’d begun the Friday before and it was strange to have a properly finished draft in front of him, to abruptly realize he was actually done.  He set his pencil down on his desk and blinked at the dust motes in the sunlight that filtered through his bedroom window, unsure of what to do with himself.

Louis took a deep breath and placed a palm on top of the stack of music in front of him, closing his eyes for a second.  

It didn’t feel like he’d expected it to.  It was surreal, almost anticlimactic, as though he should have finished with a flourish of feverish activity late at night, dramatically completing his masterpiece under the cover of darkness.  Instead he felt surprisingly calm, if a little dazed.

Louis rolled his eyes at himself with a snort, rubbing at his aching brow.   _Right, finish one duet and suddenly you’re the second coming of Mozart…  You egomaniac._

But he _was_ proud of it.  Louis was proud of what he’d written.  He knew he’d created a worthy piece of art.  For one of the first times in his life, he felt completely sure of that.  It was a beautiful, emotionally complex piece of music; he knew it was.  He felt wrung out, a little faded around the edges, but there was a kernel of satisfaction there too.  An unfamiliar touch of confidence in his heart.  

Louis pushed back his chair and wandered downstairs, drawing himself a glass of water from the tap in his kitchen.  He felt the presence of the piece of music up in the other room like a weight on his back.  The small measure of satisfaction inside of him was being overshadowed by something else.

 _What do I do now?_ he thought. _What do I do with it?_

There was only one person he really, truly wanted to show the music to, and it was the one person he felt certain he never could.

 _My beautiful, beautiful boy,_ Louis thought.   _This is for you.  For us._

Louis’s hand tightened on the glass he was holding, his heart clenching painfully in his chest.  He choked down a single sip of water and dumped the rest of it down the drain.

 _Well, what did you really expect?_ he scoffed at himself.   _Some sort of magically cathartic recovery?  Closure?  How does anyone ever really get that, anyway?  Just a bunch of bullshit.  I’m still going to love him.  I’ll always love him.  Wasn’t that what this was about?_

He meandered back up to his bedroom, leaned against the side of the doorway and stared at the sheaf of paper on his desk.

Time.  That was what Louis would have to wait on.  The simple, slow, inevitable passage of time.  It was all he could do.

_This too shall pass._

Maybe a year down the road, Louis would be able to love Harry in a distant, tragically romantic kind of way instead of with the full-bodied, frightening immediacy he felt now.  Maybe in six months or a year, the love wouldn’t feel so much like a rock in his stomach, like a tumor at the base of his esophagus, slowly suffocating him to death from within.  Eventually he’d be able to think of Harry Styles without choking on the strength of his emotion.

_Is that what I really want, though, if I’m telling myself the truth?  To get over Harry?_

He crossed the room to the piece of music, laying a hand on it again, tracing his fingers lightly over the notes on the top page.  He winced as another wave of longing washed over him. _God.  Harry Styles._  Louis did want to show it to him, so much, even though he knew didn’t deserve the chance.  He didn’t want to pine nobly from afar.  What he really wanted was to tell Harry that he loved him.  He wanted to finally be able to express to Harry how important he was to him.

 _Selfish,_ Louis told himself, sternly.   _You are selfish.  You broke his heart and your own; you don’t deserve him.  He’s happy now..._

“Fuck,” he said, thudding downstairs again and slumping down onto his couch, grabbing around for the remote so he could switch on the telly.  He’d meant it to be a distraction from his thoughts (likely an ineffective one), and definitely hadn’t considered the possibility that it would be his own face staring back at him from the screen when it flickered to life.

Louis tensed, startled.  He felt disoriented for a second and vulnerable, like there was a camera on him that very moment, before he remembered about Harry’s last concert cycle and the LSO’s arrangement with the BBC.

“Thought it was on Sunday,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably on his cushion.  “They must be re-airing…”

He voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed in on Harry, on the line of his back and the strong motions of his arms as he conducted.  It was the very end of their performance, Louis realized, the final movement of Berlioz’s _Symphonie Fantastique._  He felt relieved that he wouldn’t be able to torture himself for too long, but a bit sad too.  Watching Harry was amazing.  Louis would have done it for hours, no matter how much it hurt.

Harry was incredible as always, a confident, magnetic presence at the front of the orchestra.  Louis found himself leaning forward as the piece went on, drawn in by the strange, loping, almost hallucinatory quality of the music.  And, of course, by Harry himself.

The camera angle changed as Harry cut off the musicians to end the piece, showing him from the front rather than from behind.  Louis’s breath caught in his chest, watching, mesmerized, as the eyes of the Harry on screen moved down and to the left after the performance was over, lighting up as they did so.  Harry’s face was so clearly, openly happy, the hint of a dimple appearing in his left cheek as he beamed down at Louis.  The Louis on screen, whose eyes were shining right back, whose face was just as open, returned Harry’s gaze.  The camera was trained directly on both of them, zooming in as Harry stepped off his podium to shake Louis’s hand, and Louis’s eyes welled up with tears at what he saw.  At how obviously and totally in love he’d been.  At how obviously in love _they_ had been, because that Harry on the screen had clearly and undeniably loved him back.

_Look.  Look at what you lost.  What you were too afraid to realize you even had..._

Louis quickly turned off the telly and threw the remote control onto the floor.  His was chest heaving, the sharpness of the pain in his guts almost unbearable, the tightness at the base of his throat worse than ever.  He leapt off the couch and began to move around the room, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths so he wouldn’t get any dizzier than he already was.

 _Out, out,_ he thought.   _I need to get out._

He rifled through discarded sheets of paper on the coffee table, finally locating his phone after what felt like an eternity.

Niall picked up on the first ring.  “Lou?”

Hearing the gentle lilt of his friend’s voice almost brought Louis fully to tears, but he reined it in.

“Ni,” he managed.  He was still pacing and breathing heavily.

“Louis, are you alright?” Niall asked, the concern in his voice apparent.

Louis swallowed hard.  “Yeah.  Well, no,” he laughed, a little bleakly.  “But, um, do you think…  I need to get out of the house…  Do you think --”

“Yeah, course,” Niall said, not waiting for him to finish.  “Course.  Do ye wanna to come over?  Gladdo and Malik and I are having a little vacation cook out, if you’re up for it…  If not, I can tell them I’ll reschedule --”

“No,” Louis cut in.  “I mean, yes.  I’m--I’m up for it.”  He gave another weak laugh.  “People.  People would be good for me, I think.”

Niall chuckled, “‘Kay, well, Gladys’ll be here any minute now, so just head over whenever you want.”

“Should I bring anything?” Louis asked, not that he had anything around his flat to bring.

“Nah, just yerself.”

“Okay.”

“All right.”  Niall paused, and Louis could hear that he was shaking his head.  “I love you, buddy,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Louis murmured softly, before hanging up.

He made it to Niall’s house in just under an hour, hair still spiky and wet from the shower.  Niall had texted that they were on the patio already, so Louis went around to the back with a bottle of red he’d grabbed on the way over.

“Toldja just to bring yerself!” Niall said, pulling him into a hug and slapping him on the back.  He twirled the tongs for the grill in his left hand when they broke apart.  Niall took his position as grillmaster incredibly seriously, of course.

“Wanted to contribute,” Louis explained with a shrug.  “Wasn’t really in the mood for beer, wasn’t really sure if you’d have any wine…”

Zayn and Gladys laughed, already seated at the picnic table, but Niall made a disgruntled noise and adjusted his snapback in an indignant fashion.

“There’s wine!  There’s definitely wine!  Quite a variety, in fact!  I am a consummate host and an incredibly cultured human being, I’ll have you know.”  He objected loudly, gesturing with the tongs as he lit the grill.  He jerked his head toward Gladys.  “Tell ‘em G.”

Gladys laughed and rolled her eyes as she started to toss the salad that was sitting in the middle of the table.  “Louis, your friend Niall Horan has recently made forays into the wide and wonderful world of wine tasting, and he has several very fine selections in his kitchen at the moment.”

Niall smiled smugly at Louis from the grill, so pleased his eyes almost disappeared.

“All boxed?  Or what’s the ratio, like 70:30?  60:40?” Louis asked, laughing.

“Oooh funny, so funny.  You are gold standard hilarious as always, Tommo,” Niall said, rolling his eyes, but grinning too.  “All of the wine is in bottles, thank you very much.”

Louis smiled as he went to the table.  He’d felt a bit tense on the way over, as this was the first he’d be seeing anyone since his disgrace.  Interacting with Niall had eased that a bit, but he still felt awkward as he sat down across from Zayn.

“So,” he said, nodding hello as he grabbed the corkscrew, “how’ve you been?”

Zayn eyed him warily.  It looked like he was trying to choose his words carefully.

“Better than me, I’m guessing,” Louis said, with a tight laugh before Zayn could actually speak.  He had just wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room, but the strident falseness in his voice only reminded of him of his mother.  He had to close his eyes, and try to shove back a whole host of memories from Friday night.

_No, I am.  I am being realistic..._

The sound of Harry’s swift footfalls on the Barbican lobby carpet as he strode away from Jay echoed in Louis’s mind.

_Shit._

He’d probably just made everything worse.  That seemed to be all he was good at, lately.  Sure enough, when he opened his eyes Zayn was shifting even more uncomfortably on the picnic table bench, clearly unsure of what to say.  Gladys, who had disappeared into the house for a few minutes after finishing with the salad, rejoined them at just the right moment to come to the rescue.

“He is definitely doing better than you, Louis,” she said with a smirk, handing Louis the wine glass she’d just retrieved from the kitchen.  “Mr. Malik has his first gallery art show coming up at the end of the month.”

“What?  Really?” Louis asked, so chuffed for his friend that he forgot all about the tension he’d created.  “That’s amazing.  Congratulations!”

Zayn went a little pink, his beautiful face twisting into a half-smile.  “Thanks, mate,” he said, bobbing his head and shrugging shyly.

“So, where is it?  And when?  What kind of art?  Drawings?” Louis asked, thanking Gladys for the glass with a smile before he poured himself some wine.  “Tell me everything.”

“Well,” Zayn said, taking a sip of his beer, “‘S prints mostly…”

Twenty minutes later, Zayn was explaining how the large crush he’d developed on the curator of the gallery had created a horrible situation for him where he didn’t have the heart to tell her she was mispronouncing his last name for the first three weeks they’d worked together.

“It was completely awful.  I mean, I hardly speak when we’re together.  She probably thinks I just communicate with everyone entirely through nodding and shaking my head like some kind of nutter,” Zayn said, rolling his eyes at himself and laughing.  “And suddenly I just blurted out ‘It’s Malik’ with no warning.”

Louis laughed affectionately at the story.  He loved the way Zayn got increasingly animated when he was drinking, his voice swooping high and low for emphasis during stories.  He definitely wasn’t as quiet as people initially assumed.

Gladys patted Zayn’s arm, sitting next to him at the table.  “I’m sure she thinks you’re cute.”

Zayn shook his head. “I get overwhelmed with embarrassment because sometimes I’m scared she thinks I’m being, like, purposefully “mysterious” or summat.  Like it’s a put-on, some sort of stupid artist posturing.  And then I, like, literally want to die, and it just makes everything worse.”

Niall was laughing as he came over to the table, arms filled with plates of steak and grilled vegetables in tin foil.  “We should get you a little card to give her.  ‘Dear Perrie, beautiful people can be shy too.  Love, Zayn.’  You’ll be married in a week.”  His phone started to buzz inside the apron he was wearing as he maneuvered about, trying to set the food on the table.  “Tommo, could you get that for me, please?”

Louis hummed his assent and reached into Niall's front pocket to grab the phone.

“Who’s it from?” Niall asked, as he headed back over to the grill.

Louis glanced down at the phone and froze, his heart screeching to a halt.

“It’s, uh,” he swallowed.  His hand was shaking and clammy around Niall’s mobile as he continued to clutch it, staring down at the screen and trying to make sense of what he saw.  “It’s from Harry…” he finished in a whisper, his breath catching just a touch.

Harry had sent a picture of Florian Weil.  His arm was around the shoulders of a beautiful woman, one hand resting carefully on her very pregnant belly, his lips pressed to her temple.

**Anja and Flo and the new baby say Hallo!!!  What a lovely fam, huh?  Miss you, Nialler.  Miss London.**

A day ago, Louis might have be able to spin a ridiculous fiction in his head, might have managed to convince himself, in a downward spiral of nightmare despair, that this Anja must be Florian and Harry’s surrogate and that he’d lost Harry even more irrevocably than he’d ever thought possible.  But not now.  No.  Louis recognized the looks on their faces; he’d seen the same sort of glow between himself and Harry on the telly just that afternoon.  The truth was evident.  Florian and Anja were in love.

 _Florian and Harry aren’t together,_ Louis thought, stunned and barely breathing.   _They aren’t together.  They aren’t in love._

“Lou,” Niall said softly, coming back over from the grill and placing a hand on Louis’s shoulder, “did you hear me?  What does the message say?”

Louis couldn’t speak.  He shook his head, wordlessly handing the phone to Niall.

 _They aren’t in love…  Harry is not in love with Florian.  He’s not._  Louis’s mind was racing, careening out of control.  He couldn’t process this new information all the way; it was an emotional and sensory overload.  His temples were pounding, like his brain was swelling and compressing inside of his head, his pulse soaring.  It was a beautiful early summer afternoon, but suddenly the air felt tacky on his exposed skin, the mild sweetness in it cloying.

_I want to be on your side, always._

Niall passed the phone to Gladys.  Louis could feel them exchange a look over the top of his head after she’d seen the picture, but they seemed so far away, as if the world they inhabited were on a different plane of existence.

_Harry isn’t in love with him._

“Louis,” Gladys said, gently.

Louis kept staring down at his lap, biting the inside of his lip.  His left leg was bouncing rapidly, the only outward manifestation of the roiling energy that was building in his body.

“Louis, look at me,” she said, her voice kind.  One of her smooth, warm hands closed over his on the table.  “Look at me, dear.”

Louis looked up slowly, his chest so tight it felt like his ribs might break.  Through the blur of tears that had welled up in his eyes, he could see that Gladys’s face was full of love and understanding.

“Who are you protecting?” she asked quietly, squeezing his hand and rubbing reassuring circles into his skin.  “Are you protecting him?  Or are you still protecting yourself?”

Louis gasped out something that was half a laugh and half a sob, the tears breaking free and spilling onto his cheeks. _“Fuck,”_ he choked out.

He stood up abruptly, clambering to his feet and struggling out from between the bench and the picnic table in the least graceful way possible.  Gladys was right.  He had nothing left to hide behind; he couldn’t be a coward anymore.

Louis was suddenly aware of every single mile between him and Harry.  It felt like Berlin might as well be on the moon -- unacceptable and unbearable, how far apart they were.  Louis needed to fix it; he needed to be with him, with Harry, right away.  Any other option felt unfathomable, unlivable.  He needed to explain and declare himself as soon as possible or his body might self-destruct, crumble into a pathetic pile of dust on the ground.  He wouldn’t survive if he didn’t tell Harry he loved him.  He couldn’t live this way anymore.

He reached out blindly and grabbed Niall’s wrist.

 _“Fuck._  Niall,” he said desperately, wiping clumsily at the tears on his face with his free hand.  “You-You have…  I have --”  He took a long, shuddering inhalation to keep from getting too lightheaded and keeling over in the grass, his grip tightening on Niall’s arm.  “You have to tell me where Harry lives in Berlin.  Please.  I have to.  I have to go to Berlin; I-I have to talk to him.  I have to tell him.”

“Okay,” Niall nodded, wide-eyed as he took in everything Louis had said.  He gave a nervous laugh and pulled Louis into a firm hug, rubbing between his shoulder blades in a soothing manner.  “I have his address in my phone, all right?”

Louis nodded into his shoulder.

“Just take a couple deep breaths for me,” he instructed, palm still a reassuring presence on Louis’s upper back.  From anyone else it might have seemed mildly patronizing.  Not from Niall, though.  It was clear that he was just being accommodating and supportive, calming Louis down so he would be steady and sure-footed enough to undertake whatever madcap course of action he was planning.

“Do you want to leave right now?  Today?” he asked, pulling Louis back to look him in the eye, face full of concern.

Louis nodded again.  “Yes, today.  Right now.  Today.”

Zayn cleared his throat, still sat next to Gladys at the picnic table, his smartphone in hand.  “Last flight out of London to Berlin is the 7:10 British Airways at Heathrow,” he said, a soft smile on his face.  “It’s gonna be tight, but you can make it.”

Louis glanced down at his watch, his heart rate picking a touch.  It was just after 4:30 now.  Zayn was right; it would be tight, but he could make it.

“All right!” Niall said, a grin suddenly opening up on his face as he jogged toward the house in his flip-flops.  He pointed back at Louis, his eyes lit up with pride and excitement.  “All right, Tommo!  I’ll get my keys.  I’m taking ya in the Astra, ‘s quicker.  We needa stop at your place for yer passport?”

“Yep,” Louis confirmed, nodding.  His passport, the concerto, and himself; that was pretty much all he was planning on bringing.  He felt a shot of adrenaline bubble up inside him at the realization that he was finally, really doing this.  He was going to Berlin.  He was going to Harry.  He was going to confess his love to his beautiful boy.

“Yep,” he said aloud, again, for his own benefit.  He had never been more terrified or excited about something in his entire life.

*

Just over six and a half hours later, Louis was outside Harry’s flat, huddled under the awning of the entryway to the building.  It was quarter past eleven at night in Berlin and he was fidgeting in the dark, trying to work up the courage to ring Harry’s doorbell.

H. Styles _2A_

 _Harry Styles,_ Louis thought, his bones vibrating with the power of his nerves.  His teeth were chattering, even though the air was soft and warm around him.  Berlin was apparently lovely this time of year.

_Fuck Berlin._

It had been a mad rush to the airport, Niall pulling the Astra up to the curb outside Terminal Five so quickly that he’d almost burned rubber.  He’d hollered at Louis to “go get ‘im!” as Louis shot out of the car, sprinting to the British Airways counter so he could purchase his ticket.  He’d gone through security so jumpy and jittery he was surprised he hadn’t been selected for a “random” search, and had made it to the gate, sweaty and disheveled, just before they’d started boarding.

Then it had just been time to wait.  Louis had stared out the window of the plane, trying to figure out exactly what he should say to Harry when he saw him, struggling to formulate an apology that conveyed how genuinely, deeply sorry he felt.  He couldn’t stop his mind from working overtime, whirring in an endless loop as he obsessed over whether or not Harry would ever forgive him, if he’d even let him up to his flat, if there was any hope at all that he still loved Louis.

 _That’s beside the point,_ Louis chided himself now, as he traced a finger over the button next to Harry’s name.   _You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t do this,_ he told himself.   _You love him.  He deserves an apology and an explanation for your behavior, at the very least._

He kept making excuses, telling himself it would be more polite to come back in the morning.  As if he were actually being considerate, because he knew that Harry’s grandpa-like sleep schedule sometimes meant that he was in bed before 9:30.  As if showing up out of the blue at eight in the morning and dropping an emotional bomb on Harry would be any better, given that Harry probably had to go to work.

 _Who are you trying to protect?_   Louis rolled his eyes at himself with a snort as Gladys’s words ran through his mind.   _It was your fear that got you into this in the first place._

Louis shifted his weight from foot to foot, shook out his arms, and took a deep breath.  He leaned forward and pressed the buzzer with his index finger, holding for a full three-count in case Harry really was asleep.

 _Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God._  His heart was racing as he took a step back, bouncing gingerly on his toes and clutching his satchel to his chest as he waited.

Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty, then forty-five.  Louis was moving forward to press the buzzer one more time when the callbox came to life in a hiss of static, startling him so much he let out a small yip and leapt back half a foot.

“H-Hullo?” Harry’s deep, confused, sleep-gruff voice crackled out of the speaker and Louis’s heart seized in his chest at the sound of it.  “Who -- Flo?   _Wer ist da?”_

Louis leaned in and pressed the button to speak, trembling all the while.  “Harry,” he said, clearing his throat over the lump of emotion that had formed in it.  He was scared out of his mind.  “It’s--it’s Louis.  I, uh.  Louis Tomlinson?”  He briefly considered launching into an apology for showing up out of nowhere, but thought better of it.  “Could we -- I was just hoping -- could…  Could we talk?”

He stepped back from the speaker, wincing, his heart beating like a hummingbird’s.  He feared the worst as he involuntarily began to count the seconds before Harry responded.

_One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand..._

Louis shoved a hand into his unruly, slightly greasy airplane hair.  He was biting the inside of his cheek so hard it almost drew blood.

He’d thought his heart had been racing waiting for Harry to reply, but he was entirely unprepared for the way it jumped, almost shooting right out of his chest when Harry appeared in the flickering light of his building’s front hall.  He came sloping toward the doorway in his achingly familiar Harry way, sleep pants hanging from his hips, ratty t-shirt more holes than not, curls askew.  Perfect.  Absolutely perfect.

 _My beautiful, beautiful boy,_ Louis thought, his breath strangling inside of him.  He was.  Harry was so, so lovely to Louis.  The most beautiful thing.

Louis wanted so much at once, seeing Harry again.  He wanted to cast himself down at Harry’s feet and beg for forgiveness.  He wanted to bury his hands in Harry’s curls and kiss his plump, red lips.  He want to stare at him from afar for hours.  He just wanted to hold him for the rest of his life and never let go.

For one heart-stopping moment, he thought Harry might have come downstairs just to tell him to please leave.  But then Harry was opening the door and nodding sleepily back in the direction of the stairwell, clearly indicating that Louis should follow him inside.

“The buzzer,” Harry said, voice still rough from sleep.  He was motioning in a circle with one hand like he didn’t know the right term to use.  “The, uh, the door unlocking mechanism… thingie.  It doesn’t work all the way,” he explained, never quite making eye contact.  He nervously adjusted his fringe as he trudged along ahead of Louis, going quickly up the steps in his stocking feet.

Louis loved him so fiercely, he felt like it was going to break his body in half.  Crack his sternum right in two, all of his bones pulverized inside of him just from the force of it.  He could literally see his heart beating in his chest under his t-shirt, his pectoral muscle jumping slightly from the strength of the pulse beneath it.

_Harry Styles.  Harry Styles.  Harry Styles._

Harry silently opened the door to his flat, slipping inside and around behind it while waiting for Louis to follow him in.  He was still polite enough, as always, to close it behind them, but he effectively avoided guiding Louis through it in any way.

Harry didn’t speak until he’d led Louis into his living room, turning to face him, standing about ten feet away with his arms across his chest and a furrow in his brow.

“So,” he prompted, his voice shaky.  His gorgeous green eyes were big and blinking, but guarded.  “What did you want to talk about?”

He sounded wary, but genuinely curious and open to hearing what Louis had to say -- and still, after everything, maybe a tiny bit hopeful too.  It momentarily stole Louis’s breath away, Harry’s unfathomable loveliness as a human being.  It sometimes seemed beyond comprehension, and Louis wanted to sink into the floor as his mind flashed back to that terrible night at his house, so long ago, to the stony, clipped tone of his own voice when he’d asked Harry what it was that he wanted.

_Christ, I love him so much.  How could anyone truly deserve him?_

Louis set his satchel on the ground beside Harry’s couch, not wanting to use it as a security blanket while he talked.  It was so difficult not being able to touch him.  He wanted to cross the room and put a comforting hand on the back of Harry's neck, touch his face, trace the lines of his eyebrows and murmur that he loved him.  He knew that wasn’t allowed.  Instead he squirmed where he stood, clearing his throat and stalling for time as he tried to figure out where to start.  It seemed like an impossible task.

Harry shifted expectantly in front of him, still waiting for a response, his growing agitation clear in the way he was playing with his lower lip.

Louis took a deep breath and started to speak.

“I guess…  I guess, first, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about how I treated you, Harry.”  Louis shut his eyes, swallowing down a sob as the familiar swell of guilt rose up inside him, the same suffocating self-loathing as always, closing up his throat.  “I am so, so sorry about what I did and the way I acted.  I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.  I was a coward.  So… so afraid.  And it kills me, thinking about how it must have seemed to you like I didn’t -- like I don't care about you.  I’ll never forgive myself for that, because literally nothing... _nothing_ could be further from the truth.”

He looked at Harry then, properly, right in the eyes.  Harry’s were rimmed red and already full of tears like Louis’s own.  Louis’s heart skipped a beat as he prepared for what he was going to say next, but there was no going back now.

“I love you, Harry,” he breathed out helplessly, letting tears slip down his face.  “So much.  I am so in love with you.  And I was afraid if I didn’t come here and tell you these things it would haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Harry blinked at him, his face mottled red with emotion.  A single tear of his own slid down his right cheek.  “But w-why?” he stammered, breath jagged and hiccuping.  “Why did --”

“Why did I say what I did to Dennis Turner?" Louis asked.  He balled his hands into fists at his sides, until his nails were digging into his palms.  It was hurting every single nerve in his body not being able to reach out for Harry, not being able to comfort him.  "Why was I so horrible to you when you came to me for an explanation?”

Harry nodded, wiping at his nose and eyes.  His shoulders hunched in on themselves and the occasional tear continued to leak out onto his cheeks.  Louis's heart was aching at the sight of him, clenching angrily at the knowledge that he'd caused Harry so much pain.

“It’s really…  It’s no excuse. But I --”  Louis's cheeks pinked with embarrassment at the depth of his insecurity as he scuffed his foot on Harry’s ugly carpet.  “I, um, I thought that…  I thought you had already decided to go to Berlin.  That you hadn’t told me, but that you were leaving.”  He shook his head.  “It sounds so stupid now, but I heard Taggie Diversey and Amelia Frasier-Lind talking about it at that party, after your last concert.  I was so devastated, and it’s awful and so humiliating to think about because I reacted in an incredibly childish and -- and vindictive way.”  Louis brushed a tear off his face, continuing in a whisper, staring down at Harry’s feet out of shame.  He scratched at an eyebrow self-consciously, shrugging.  “I’d found your offer, from here -- from Berlin --  in your couch a month before and I’d hoped…  I kept hoping that I could somehow be enough.  That the two of us together, that maybe I might be enough for you to want to stay.  And then...” he sighed, not finishing the thought, rubbing at the edge of his jaw where the tears were leaving itchy trails as they rolled off his face.  “I didn’t mean what I said to Dennis.  That's the exact opposite of how I really felt, Harry.  I-I wanted to keep you in London forever, but I thought…  I thought you didn't care.  So I acted like I didn’t either."

Louis raised his head, blinking back more tears as he made eye contact with Harry again.

“I can’t stop thinking about the last thing you said at my house that night,” Louis whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.  “About--about always wanting to be on my side and how I never let you, how I wouldn’t let you.  I would, Harry.  I would, now, if you gave me a chance.  I do want you to be on my side.  I want to be on yours.  I want that more than anything else I can think of in the entire world.  I--I would keep you _by_ my side for the rest of my life if you let me...”

 _“Louis,”_ Harry said gently, his voice thick.

Louis quickly bent down to his bag, tugging the finished duet from the confines of the leather.  He was suddenly terrified of what he might see in Harry’s eyes.  He’d been concentrating so hard on pouring his heart out to him, on finally expressing everything he felt, that he’d sort of lost track of the fact that he desperately hoped Harry still loved him in return, if he’d ever loved him at all.  He’d managed to momentarily forget that if Harry let him down easy, no matter how proud Louis would be that he’d had the strength to apologize and explain himself, his heart would be broken anew.  He was definitely well aware of it now, as he held out his composition out to Harry with a shaking hand and downcast eyes.  Louis needed to give it to him before he found out how Harry felt; otherwise he might completely lose his nerve.  It was the last piece of the puzzle for Louis, perhaps the most important one.

Harry took it wordlessly, but Louis could feel his eyes moving over his face, full of questions.  He watched with a pounding heart from several feet back as Harry spread the piece out on a nearby desk, running his fingertips across the opening measures, brow furrowing as he read.

“You wrote this,” Harry murmured, as he flipped the first page.  It was definitely not a question, but Louis hummed in conformation anyway.  His skin was crawling with vulnerability as Harry looked it over.

Harry’s breath suddenly caught at something he’d found in the music on the page.   _“Oh, Louis,”_ he said.

Louis averted his eyes so that he was staring carefully at discolored spot on the wall, all of the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Sweetheart,” Harry said, tenderly.  “Please look at me.”

The endearment alone was enough to make Louis’s throat tight with emotion and he lifted his head in small, hopeful increments until he was looking directly into Harry’s beautiful, tear-streaked face.  As soon as Louis met Harry’s gaze he started to cry all over again, fresh tears flowing from the sheer degree of the joy and relief that was coursing through his body.  He was undone by the magnitude and vibrancy of the love shining at him out of Harry’s eyes.

“I love you so much, Louis,” Harry choked out.  “You must know, I…  I never stopped.  Couldn’t stop.”

Louis flushed at Harry’s words, feeling his love spreading out over his skin and filling him up, making him tingle all over.  He teetered on his feet, almost dizzy from it.

_Harry.  Harry.  My Harry.  Always, always._

Harry pressed his trembling fingertips to the stack of sheet music, almost caressing it.  “And this is…  I don’t even know what to say.  It’s -- _Louis._  It means so much.  It’s perfect.”

“Thank you,” Louis managed to whisper, happiness racing quickly through his veins and heating up his already warm face.  He felt almost delirious from it.  Blood was rushing past his ears in the sweetest, most intoxicating kind of way.

Harry shook his head, advancing toward Louis until they were less than a foot apart.   _“God._  I can’t believe how much,” he whispered, staring at Louis with his eyes full of adoring wonder.  “I can’t believe how much I love you.”

“I...” Louis breathed quietly, struggling to find his voice amidst all the emotion.  “I love you, too.”

Harry smiled wetly, wiping away another tear.  He tilted his head to the side, remorse coloring his expression, his voice tight.  “I owe you an apology, too, Louis.  More than one.  I should…  I should have told you how I felt, should have told you about Berlin.  I can’t --”  His voice broke slightly and he continued in a whisper.  “I can’t believe I let you feel so alone.  I’m so sorry, Louis.  I was afraid, just like you were.”

Louis shrugged, sniffling.  He opened his mouth, about to protest that Harry’s insecurities hadn’t manifested themselves in the same ugly manner his own had, but Harry shook his head.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, softly.  "I understand about -- about Dennis Turner.  I do.  It was…” he let out a pained laugh.  “It hurt.  A lot.  But I understand and I forgive you.  I want you to know…  I forgive you and _I love you."_

Louis felt an overwhelming surge of hope and relief at Harry’s words; they had finally lifted the stubborn weight of his guilt from his shoulders.  He almost couldn’t believe they were true.  “Thank you,” he said, sincerely.

Harry's eyes were brimming with affection, a familiar spark of desire lighting behind them.  “Can we -- We can talk more later.  I-I need…  I want...”

Louis’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure.  He was awash in happiness, his heart soaring with love as Harry leaned in.

 

Harry could feel his heart pounding.  He brought his shaking fingers up to caress Louis’s cheek, letting his gaze flicker down from the blue eyes to stare in wonder at the place where their skin was touching.

“I never thought I’d get to do this again,” he whispered.  He cupped Louis’s jaw in his hand and melted as Louis nuzzled into it.  “Feeling you…”  Harry almost gasped with the sensation.

Louis’s eyelashes fluttered shut, an almost infinitely tender look on his face as he brought his left hand up to graze the tips of his fingers along Harry’s wrist.  Harry felt suspended.  Like his whole being was right at the surface of his skin, in the light brushes where they met.  He bit his lip as Louis knitted their hands more firmly, slipping his fingers into the cracks between Harry’s and turning his head to press a kiss into Harry’s palm.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Louis breathed.  “I thought I was going to die if I couldn’t touch you again.”

When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.  Harry felt a thrill run down his spine and skitter out through his chest when he noticed how large his hand looked on Louis’s face.  The slight contrast between their skin tones…  He moved it into a more commanding position at the nape of Louis’s neck, threading the tips of his fingers through the soft, fine hair and pulling him in.

“I love you, Harry,” Louis whispered, when their lips were just barely separated.  “I love you so much.”

He closed the final gap, surging up on his tiptoes to kiss Harry.  It was so like and unlike their first kiss -- everything was new; everything was familiar.  Their lips moved against each other gently, but with purpose, becoming more heated when Louis opened his mouth to let Harry’s tongue inside.  Harry was overwhelmed again, but it was with the feeling of strong, abiding, _sure_ love.  His body responded exquisitely to Louis, pressing him closer, closer...  He was desperate; he was patient.  And this time their faces were wet with tears instead of rain.

They broke apart with a gasp.  “I’m yours.  I’m yours,” Harry said, excitement spreading outward from the tingling in his lips.  “I think I’m going to love you forever.”

Louis answered with a watery grin, pure, radiant happiness and soft relief etched in his features.  It was a second and a half, an almost painfully long time to be apart, before they were falling into each other again.  Harry shivered as Louis breathed him in, getting a hand in his curls and pressing his body wantonly against Harry’s.

“I’m so obsessed with you,” Louis breathed, separating Harry’s legs with his thigh as Harry felt his cock begin to fill up.   _“All_ of you.”

Harry ground down onto Louis with a moan.  “Thank God,” he answered, letting his voice rumble from deep in his chest as Louis slipped a hand between them.  “Because there’s no one else like you for me.”

Louis gave him a gentle, cheeky squeeze and Harry felt like laughing.  That was his Louis.   _His_ Louis…  Harry didn’t know if his heart could physically be more full of love.  It was throbbing in him, crashing over them both in invisible waves as their lips met again, eager to explore each other.  Harry lost his mind in the heady sensation; then Louis’s hand was on his shoulder and he was pulling himself up, wrapping his strong thighs around Harry’s waist and _oh,_ Harry’s arms were full of Louis now, biceps flexing as he got a firm grip on Louis’s beautiful arse.

“Favorite,” Harry mumbled breathlessly as he kneaded it.

Louis chuckled, and hummed contentedly into his mouth.  “Shared favorite.”

Harry carried Louis to the bedroom, grinning as he saw Louis’s eyes glaze over when they glanced down at his working muscles.  “God, you’re so hot,” he said.  “I just…”  Harry felt him take a shuddering breath as he buried his face in Harry’s neck, mouthing under his jaw.  “I can’t handle it; I can’t handle it.”

“I love you,” Harry answered.

“Love you, too,” he heard in Louis’s softest voice, as he felt wet lips nip at his pulse point.  “I’ll never stop.”

Their cocks were trapped together under layers of clothing, hot and stiff and aching for each other.  It was a beautiful sort of frustration, being able to feel it, but not all of it.  Being able to look down and see the outlines of their erections rubbing against each other, but not being able to see the drops of precum beading from their slits.  Louis rocked his hips forward as Harry kicked the bedroom door open, and after the long separation, it was almost enough.  Just the _thought_ of Louis’s cock drove him wild.  It was so close, so close…  Harry pictured it pounding into him, punching _oh-oh-ohs_ out of his throat.  Felt it in his mouth, the velvety weight of it.

Saw it in his hand.

“Shit,” he breathed.   _“Lou.”_

They were horizontal now, rutting up against each other fully clothed in a tangle on the bed.  There was so much heat between them, Harry felt like they might both go up in flames.

“What do you need?”  Louis smiled down at him tenderly, rubbing circles into his scalp.  He was still grinding his hard-on into Harry’s crotch, but had deliberately slowed the pace and shifted his hips for maximum contact.  His expertly directed thrusts were sending long, intense waves of pleasure through Harry’s body.

“Wanna be inside you,” Harry breathed, dick twitching as he imagined it.  “Wanna feel you all over, all over…   _Fuck.”_

“Yeah,” Louis said, moving his knees up so that his arse was rocking on Harry in a preview of what was to come, hands splayed across Harry’s chest.  “I want that too.  Like the first time.”  There was a flush high on his cheekbones, and Harry put a hand up to touch.   _So pretty…_

“You’re so pretty like this, Louis,” he said in a rough voice, emotion forming a lump in his throat.  He wasn’t going to hold anything back anymore.  Whatever he thought, whatever he felt, he was going to say out loud.

Louis blushed a deeper red.  “I used to, um…” he started.  “I used to stare at you, when I teased you.  At Interlochen.  To see the pink in your cheeks and -- and I didn’t understand.  It made me feel uncomfortable, because…”  His breath stuttered as Harry pulled him down, bodies stilling for a moment, hearts beating against each other.  “... I wasn’t _gay.”_

“You are gay,” Harry murmured.

“I know,” Louis said, with a strangled laugh.  “Fuck, I’m so sorry you had to be there for that part of my life.”

Harry felt a pulse of dull pain through his heart, but it was from a wound that was healing.  Finally, finally.  He had Louis here, in Berlin, in his arms like a miracle.  He was never letting go.

“I want to be here for the rest of it, though.”

Louis breathed in slowly, pulling himself up onto his elbows to study Harry’s face.  There were fresh tears in his long eyelashes.  Harry lifted a finger to brush them gently away.  “Please,” Louis said, finally, his voice shaky.  “Forever.”

“I promise,” Harry whispered.

Louis nodded, burying both of his hands in Harry’s hair as he kissed him hard.  They breathed each other’s air, Harry surging up to capture Louis around the waist and roll them over so that he was on top.  They were connected at the lips, the heart, the pelvis.  Harry could feel the heat between them kick up another few notches, and he wondered how long he would be able to last.  It was _Louis,_ for fuck’s sake.  Neither of them had taken off a single article of clothing and it was already the most erotic experience of Harry’s life to date.   _Louis, Louis…_  His head was spinning.  He was so turned on he was scared he was going to pass out.

“Off,” he said, tugging at Louis’s shirt.  “Off, off.”

Louis chided, “Didn’t say please, you caveman,” unable to keep a slight moan out of his voice.  “Were you raised by wolves or something?”

“Off, _please,”_ Harry demanded, before yanking it roughly over Louis’s head and tossing it on the floor.  His face hurt from grinning all of a sudden.  He’d been hoping that Louis would still be demanding, teasing, his same borderline-impossible self.  And here he was beneath him, devilish gleam in his eye.  Pouting because Harry hadn’t touched him yet.  “Fuck, Louis, I love you.”

“I know, Styles; now show me.”

“Mmm,” Harry sighed, finally able to run his hands over the tanned skin of Louis’s torso.  It was like heaven.  “You are so fucking gorgeous.”

Louis smiled up at him, moonlight mixing with the faint light filtering in from the kitchen to illuminate his face.  Soft and blinding and so, so lovely.  “My beautiful boy,” he whispered.  Harry felt a sob hitch in his throat as he heard those words again.  He nuzzled into Louis’s chest, giving fleeting, appreciative licks to both his nipples before tonguing down his torso to his waistband.  He rubbed his face into the hot, hard bulge just below, smiling when he heard Louis hiss.

Gently, lovingly, he removed the rest of Louis’s clothing and helped with his own and then _Christ, yes,_ they were both naked, and Harry could kiss and touch and pull Louis closer.  He got a hand around both of their cocks and began to stroke.

“So good,” Louis breathed.  Harry could feel his body quivering, and it made his own heart skip a beat.  “God, Haz, I want your fingers.”

Harry grinned and twisted his torso, trying to make a grab for the drawer in his bedside table.  Louis laughed, immediately taking the opportunity to tickle his ribs as Harry gasped and wiggled above him, finally pulling out the lube.  A couple of stray condoms came out with it and fluttered to the floor.  Louis’s face fell, fingers stilling just below his armpits.  Harry felt his heart lurch.

“Do we, um…” Louis cleared his throat.  “Do we need a condom, Harry?”  His voice was small, suddenly, and vulnerable.  After their first reckless night together, they’d both gotten tested.  Since they were both clean, they’d never had to use protection.

“No!” Harry cried, dropping the bottle for a moment to cradle Louis’s face in his hands, trying to will the stiff, scared expression off of it.  “No, no… Do we?”

Louis shook his head.  “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Me either,” Harry said, and felt both of them relaxing.  “God, I couldn’t even think of it.  There’s no one else.”

Louis shuddered against him and pulled him down tight.  “No one else,” he breathed.

“Mine,” Harry agreed, kissing Louis fiercely on the temple and then on the mouth.  They spent the next few minutes in a mutual frenzy of possessiveness, which ended in Louis pinning Harry to the mattress to suck a huge bruise onto his neck.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, as he came up for air.  His hand fumbled for the lube and he pressed it into Harry’s hand, squirming down into the crook of Harry’s shoulder and spreading his legs.  “Babe, please.”

“‘Course,” Harry said, rolling over so that he was between Louis’s beautiful thighs, rubbing up and down them before snicking open the lube and dousing his fingers.  “Gonna take care of you.”

Louis settled down into the pillow at his head and beamed.  Harry was so happy to see him secure and confident that he kept staring, almost forgot what he was supposed to do.  Louis just laughed at him when he managed to snap out of it, suddenly and eagerly pressing a finger against Louis’s rim.

“I love you,” Harry grinned, sheepishly.  He couldn’t get enough of saying it.  “Love your hole.”  He bent down to look at it, fluttering prettily around his finger.  “Pink and perfect, perfect and pink.”  Harry licked a broad stripe over it as Louis blushed with pleasure.

Harry spent the next little while staring at Louis’s face as he opened him up, paying attention to all the subtle changes of expression.  The curve of his fine brows, the flicker of his eyelashes.  It was all so beautiful, Harry felt buoyant and radiant with it.  “My beautiful, beautiful boy,” Louis murmured again at one point, gazing up at Harry in fond wonder, eyes glassy, overwhelmed by the sensations Harry was sending through his body.  Harry felt heat bloom in his chest.  He pressed his lips to Louis’s.  Then to his cheek, and to the side of his neck.

“And you’re mine.”

Louis bit his lip and arched his back when Harry added a third finger, trembling and gasping until finally he said, “‘M ready.  Please, Harry.”  His voice was high and soft, as sweet as an _andante_ phrase Harry had noticed repeated over and over again in the score of the double concerto.  He wanted to play it, wanted to look into Louis’s eyes as they played together.  But now Louis was rocking back on his hand, softly whimpering, begging him with his eyes.

Harry positioned himself over Louis, sliding a pillow under his bum to help with the angle as he lined up his cock with Louis’s entrance.  He teased for a moment, still dry.  Heard Louis groan once at the pressure of his head on his rim and then slid forward, letting his thick length rest on Louis’s belly.

“Harry,” Louis breathed.  He was staring up at Harry’s body like he couldn’t quite believe it.  Gently, Harry took the delicate wrist of his right hand, tracing the bones with his thumb, and drizzled lube over his fingers.

“I’ve always loved your hands,” he whispered.  “Always got distracted by them in rehearsal…”

Louis grinned and touched his slick fingers to Harry’s cock, wrapping his palm around it and working his shaft in a perfect rhythm.  Harry threw his head back, trying to breathe as the sensation overwhelmed him.  He almost couldn’t look; it was so hot.  He was going to go out of his mind.

 _“Fuck,”_ he gasped, losing himself in Louis’s touch.  His cock throbbed and he had to get inside him soon, or it would be too late.  “Fuck, okay, babe.  Okay, love.”

Louis raised his eyebrows and grinned, wiggling his bum as Harry scooted back between his thighs.  Harry shifted forward, positioning himself as Louis ran fingers lightly up and down the outside of his arms.  Tracing the bulges in his triceps.

“Please.”

Harry pressed the head of his cock inside, and they both had to take a moment.  Louis was so _tight_ and deliciously wet and warm, Harry had to fight not to come straight away.  His breath hitched, and Louis let out a little moan.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked.

“More,” Louis answered, tugging weakly on his arms.  “Please, please.”

Harry rocked into him, settling himself deep inside.  “You feel amazing,” he said, reverently.  He ran his hands over the soft curves of Louis’s waist, admiring the golden skin as he began to move.

“So do you,” Louis gasped.  “Oh, _God…”_

Just hearing his wrecked voice made Harry’s balls tighten, brought the arousal curling in his gut to a new level.  He stuttered to a stop.

“Keep moving,” Louis begged.  “Please, Harry.  Feels so good.”

Harry groaned.  “It’s…  I haven’t…”  He glanced down at Louis sheepishly.  “If I move, I’m gonna come.”

“Then kiss me.”  Louis raised a hand to Harry’s face, guiding him down to his heated lips.  Harry groaned as he felt Louis’s tongue flick into his mouth.  They were so connected, _finally._  Finally.  They kissed as Harry began to thrust again, and Harry was worried his body might melt into a puddle, or explode from the sensory overload.  His cock was on fire, so fucking hard as he drove it into Louis.

He shuddered when he came, unable to hold back any longer, gasping into Louis’s mouth.  The world winked out for a moment.  He could feel himself emptying in hot spurts, his muscles seizing and _fuck._  Louis held him through it, murmuring sweet things to him until he collapsed, sweaty, onto his chest.  Jizz leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, but Harry didn’t care.  He felt warm and boneless and utterly satisfied.

Slowly, he came back to himself enough to realize that Louis was still hard.  He was whimpering, desperate for release, trying to rock up against the weight of Harry’s torso.  Harry pulled out slowly and pinned Louis’s hips to the bed.  Ducking down, he took Louis into his mouth.  It was only a few seconds before Harry tasted warm come over his lips, down the back of his throat, shooting messily onto his cheek.

 _“Harry,”_ Louis breathed, plunging a hand into his curls, mussing it with lube.  “I love you.”

Harry smiled lazily, clumsily wiping his face on his forearm and crawling up in bed so that he could draw Louis into a cuddle.  “I love you too, but we’re a little embarrassing.”

Louis laughed.  “Well I beat you.  By about half a minute.”

“You lasted fifty percent longer than me.”

They squeezed each other tight, giggling and sighing as they petted each other’s hair and face.  “We’re sex gods, actually,” Louis said.  “We’ll just have to work on building up some sort of immunity to each other.”

“Probably impossible,” Harry said, letting his voice drawl out even slower than usual.

“Definitely.”  Louis trembled involuntarily as he stretched, still recovering from his orgasm.  “Definitely never getting over this.”

It was one o’clock in the morning by the time they’d showered together, changed the messy sheets (on Harry’s insistence), and gotten back into bed, but neither of them felt tired.  Instead, Harry decided that he wanted to go through the score of Louis’s concerto again.  He read it more carefully this time, one hand lightly smudging the pencil and the other clutching Louis’s as he told him how wonderful it was.

“I didn’t tell you yet,” Louis realized, turning from the music to gaze at Harry.  “I overheard you with my mother.”

Harry blinked back at him in surprise.  “You were still there?  I thought you’d gone.”

“Well, I spent some time in a cupboard, but that’s not the important part.”

Harry’s fondest dimple came out and Louis blushed, lowering his head as he fiddled with the hem of the sheets.  “You made me feel so supported, Harry.  Even though I was still scared to talk to you.  I understood what you meant, finally, about always being on my side.  That hadn’t -- that hadn’t gotten through before.  And it gave me the strength to start writing this.”

“It’s about us…” Harry whispered, a little in awe.

Louis nodded.  He began to describe how each part of the piece reflected bits of their relationship, and Harry’s eyes widened with interest.  He questioned Louis, endlessly fascinated, and they wound up retracing their steps together.  They explained how they’d each felt at different times (“You wanted me during the photo shoot?”   _“Your tux!_  I had to concentrate not to stare at you.”) and finally it turned into another discussion about their break up.

“I mean,” Harry sighed, tucking his hands behind his head and rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling as he tried to marshal his thoughts, “being open was always so easy for me, after I came out.  But with you…”  He worried his bottom lip as Louis traced patterns on his chest.  “I guess part of it was residual fear.  Definitely because of what happened at Interlochen, but also because when I first met you I _wasn’t_ open, not yet.  That’s what I was used to, and I got used to it again.  I-I knew I should have told you about Berlin.  I should have told you that I was in love with you.”

Louis nodded quietly.  “I was so sure you didn’t.  I was so sure I wasn’t enough.”

Harry gathered him up in his arms and rocked him, peppering his hair with kisses.  “I love you,” he said.  He couldn’t stop saying it.  He wanted to say it a hundred times, and then a thousand.

“When did you first start loving me?” Louis asked, softly.

“When I saw you with that little girl,” Harry said.  “You gave her your rosin.”

“Sophie?”  Louis smiled.

“Mmm.  I thought…  I just wanted to hold you, tell you how wonderful you are.  What a wonderful person.  The perfect person for me.  I love it when you tease me; I love it when you’re soft like that.  It made me think about having a family with you, someday.”

“Really?”  Louis sat up, absolutely beaming.  He kissed Harry twice and nuzzled into his neck.  “I want that too.”  Harry felt his heart begin to beat faster and faster, like it was running toward the future.

“When did you first start loving me?” Harry asked.

Louis thought for a long time before he answered.  “I’m not sure,” he said, finally.  “Sometimes I think I always have.”

 

They finally drifted off around dawn, wrapped in each other’s arms.  When Louis woke again it was to Harry sitting up next to him, squirming and typing something into his phone.  He was so beautiful with the bright, clean light of early afternoon washing over his pale skin and his tattoos, and making his curls look like a gold-tinged halo.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Louis croaked, in his morning voice.

Harry immediately tossed his phone aside and slid down in bed, kissing Louis’s face all over and running his fingers through his hair.  “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Louis replied, happily.

“Okay excellent, because I have to wee.”  Harry shot up, ghosted one more kiss over the tip of Louis’s nose and fell out of bed, scrambling for the door.  He almost tripped over a pile of last night’s dirty sheets, knees knocking together as he tried to extricate himself from the situation.

Louis laughed, face cracking into a fond grin.  “Why didn’t you just go before?” he asked, rolling over and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” Harry shrugged.  He scratched the bruise on his neck as he shifted his weight in the doorway, antsy but still reluctant to leave.  “Didn’t want you to wake up and think I was gone…”

 _“Harry,”_ Louis rolled his eyes, smiling softly.  “I love you; no one’s leaving.  Go have a wee.”

Harry shot out into the hallway and Louis rolled over onto his back, gazing up at the blank ceiling with a smile on his face that seemed to warm his whole body.  He felt languid and deeply satisfied, and somehow _full._  Whole.  As if Harry had never actually pulled out.  Louis clenched his arsecheeks, groaning with a little leftover arousal at the slight burn.

He pounced on Harry when he returned from the bathroom, pulling him down onto the bed and capturing his mouth -- he tasted like mint now, but his hair still smelled like lilac and citrus.  They gave each other lazy afternoon blowjobs, slow and heated and wonderful.  Then they collapsed again, fresh sheen of sweat on their skin.

“I think we have to eat,” Harry said.

“At some point,” Louis nodded, the pointy part of his chin resting directly on Harry’s breastbone.

“Let’s go to a cafe and sit on a sidewalk and drink something extravagant and have five appetizers,” Harry suggested, brushing his fingers over Louis’s neck and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine.

“Don’t you have to work?” Louis asked.

Harry shrugged.  “I took care of it.”

They showered (and Louis pressed Harry into the tile, soaping up his hand and bringing him off again, quickly, just for good measure), dressed and twenty minutes later were walking around Kreuzberg hand in hand.  Berlin really was lovely this time of year, and Louis didn’t feel resentful anymore.  He just enjoyed the wide blue sky and the pleasant scent of the summer air, breathing in deeply.

“Are…”  Louis faltered, when they’d settled themselves at a little table and gotten their drinks.  “Is it too soon to ask -- will you come back to London?”

“Course I’m bloody coming back to London,” Harry answered.  “Berlin’s a hell hole.”  He swept his arm out, indicating the pleasant view of well-manicured greenery dotting a bustling, friendly neighborhood.

“Not to mention the weather’s crap,” Louis sniffed.  “But what about your contract?”

Harry cleared his throat, leaning forward and fiddling with the menu, serious expression on his face.  “There’s a trial period built in,” he said, raising his head to gaze at Louis.  “At the end of two months, both parties have to give their consent and that’s when the long-term part would begin.  But either of us can back out.”

“And that’s what you’d do?” Louis asked, feeling a little breathless.  “You’d back out?”

Harry nodded.  “I was considering it anyway,” he said.  “Lately, I’ve just…  I’ve wanted to play again.  I love conducting, but…” he shrugged.  “And it’s so different here; I didn’t realize until I came back.  I love London.  I want to make my life there.  I want to make my life with you.”

Louis grinned.  “Me too,” he said.  “And I couldn’t leave London, I don’t think.  Even though -- well, I can definitely stay here with you, if you’d like, for your last few weeks.”  He told Harry sheepishly about his leave of absence, and Harry pulled him up onto his lap, hugging him tightly.

“Nick won’t fire you,” he said, petting Louis’s hair.  “He won’t.  He’s just giving you time to breathe.”

Louis sighed.  “I needed it.”

The waiter came.  Louis plopped back down into his own chair and let Harry order their food in German, feeling a fresh little burst of love when he heard his gravelly voice pronounce the unfamiliar words.

_“Ich hätte gerne Tintenfisch und die Käseplatte, für mich und meinen Freund, bitte.”_

“What did you say?” Louis whispered, scooting his chair closer to Harry’s so that he could curl up into his side a just a little.  Harry looped an arm easily around his shoulder.

“I ordered calamari and a cheese plate,” Harry said, “for me and my boyfriend.”

Louis went pink and pulled Harry down by the soft collar of his t-shirt to kiss him.  “Sexy,” he breathed, feeling a prickle of electricity over his skin.  “Maybe we should stay in Berlin after all.”

 _“Echt?”_ Harry asked.  His mouth quirked, voice jumping up about three octaves before he cleared his throat.   _“Es gefällt dir, mein schöner toller Freund...”_

“I hope you’re telling me about what a big cock I have.”

Harry burst out into a squawk of laughter, clapping one hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook.  Louis grinned, absolutely delighted that he could still make Harry lose it.  He unabashedly admired his boyfriend’s face as he tried to calm down.

“Who has got a big cock?”

Louis and Harry looked over their shoulders at the same time to see Florian and Anja standing on the sidewalk, smiling at them over the row of potted flowers that decorated the edges of the cafe’s patio.

“Everyone!” Harry said, reaching his arms out wide as he stood up to hug them both.  “You too, Anja.”

She laughed and slapped his shoulder.

“Louis Tomlinson,” said Flo, reaching out to shake.  “You must be the reason he canceled rehearsal.”  Louis stood nervously and took his large, warm hand.

“Florian Weil,” he nodded.  He felt a faint sting of remorse that he’d been so jealous of Florian, when he was obviously a nice man, and a good friend to Harry.  “I’m --” he cleared his throat, letting his hand drop.  He adjusted his fringe shyly.  “Thank you,” was all he said, with a slight nod toward Harry.  He and Anja weren’t paying attention to them.  The baby was kicking, and Harry’s eyes were lit up, his hands splayed across her belly.

“Yes,” Florian said.  “Well.  My thanks in return for the afternoon off.  I am glad you are here.  But if I ever have to see him like he was…”  He raised his dark eyebrows menacingly.

“Never,” Louis replied.  His voice was sure.  “Never.”

“Good,” Florian said.  He clapped Louis’s shoulder once and stepped back to size him up.  “You know, you make a very attractive couple; has anyone told you?”

Louis snorted and rolled his eyes.  “Thanks,” he said.  “And you --” he gestured to Anja, “Congratulations to you both.”

That made Florian grin with pride.

They chatted for a few more minutes, and when the food came, Florian and Anja waved goodbye and continued with their walk.  Louis fed Harry calamari and cheese with his fingers, giggling and letting him lick off the grease.  The day spooled out slow and lazy, and it felt like their connection had only strengthened.  Now Louis was noticing everything about Harry, every amazing thing, and cataloguing each one.  They talked for hours, walking through the neighborhood and falling into each other’s arms as Harry showed Louis some of the sights of Berlin.  Louis felt lighter than air, floating through the city with _this boy,_ his boy.   _Harry Styles._  It was like there’d been poison in his heart, crippling him.  Now that Harry had sucked it all out, he suddenly found it so easy to be strong.

They kissed each other whenever they wanted to, until the sun began to sink in the sky.  Then they walked back to Harry’s apartment and made love.

“I feel alive again,” Harry said, when they were stretched out, naked and open to each other.  “When I left London, it was like I was dead.  And then it was you.  At the door, it was you and I thought I was dreaming.  It’s like I’ve risen from the dead.”

“Yeah,” Louis answered.  “God, me too.”

Harry reached out and squeezed his hand tight, and they lay there like that for a while, quiet and contemplative.  Alive.

The programs were printed and piled in neat stacks for the ushers.  Backstage, the musicians unearthed instruments of wood and gleaming brass from velvet cases, warming up quietly as they waited for their cue to go on.  Concertgoers filtered into the Barbican Centre, some stopping to have a quick drink beneath the recessed lighting before making their way to their seats in the performance hall.  Perfume mingled in the air with muted voices, the soft sound of tickets being ripped, and the occasional tinkle of laughter. 

It was a landmark night, the debut of a new composer and the return of a much-loved featured performer.  Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.  They were going to play a double concerto that Tomlinson had written, and that marked the first time Styles would publicly put bow to strings in nearly three years.  The buzz in the hall was louder and more anticipatory than usual, and only increased as the lights flickered and the last ticket-holders filed in to take their seats.

“They’re in love, you know,” they whispered to each other as the curtain drew back.  “He wrote it for _them.”_

The audience broke out into applause when Tomlinson and Styles took the stage, coming in from opposite wings.  They shook hands in front of the podium, the violinist’s thumb barely brushing over the cellist’s wrist before they parted to take their places for the performance.  They smiled at each other, loving and a bit shy as the conductor raised her baton.

The orchestra began to play.

Tomlinson came in first with a cautious, hopeful melody.  Thin.  A bit tired and wary.  When he met the rough beats of Styles’s lower register, suddenly his violin exploded into a frenzy of fingerings, a burst of new, confrontational themes.  The piece was a process of finding each other, working together.  It built to a magnificent, unified climax that held the audience captive. 

When they received a standing ovation, Tomlinson stepped forward to kiss Styles on the mouth -- something Styles obviously hadn’t been expecting.  He blushed and almost tripped, laughing as he heard wolf whistles from the floor (and a couple from certain members of the orchestra).  Their fingers were shaking with adrenaline and they left the stage hand in hand.

It became a tradition.  Years later, whenever an audience stood for the LSO at the close of a performance, Harry Styles knew that he should look for Louis Tomlinson and wait for his kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! The end! Phew. Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented and left kudos and talked to us on Tumblr. We are so happy you've responded to what we've written, and the feedback really has meant so much to us.
> 
> Unfortunately I can only find links to two of John Fould's Three Mantras, which Harry was rehearsing with the Berlin Philharmonic early in the chapter. (Sorry, all the links to Louis's double concerto have been lost in a freak accident.)
> 
> [Mantra I](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLR21wbcSnU)
> 
> [Mantra III](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLR21wbcSnU)
> 
> The last thing I want to say is a MASSIVE THANK YOU (haha, but really I'm serious about the massiveness) to Addy for being so great and bringing so much heart/soul/emotional immediacy to what we write. I love you, friend!
> 
> -100percentsassy
> 
> I just want to say thank you so much for reading!! We really appreciate the all feedback we got along the way. it’s been so nice!! (haha don’t stop now, more comments please!!)
> 
> Also thank you to Lexy for being such a wonderful writing partner and all around amazing friend. I love you the most!
> 
> And ahah Harry’s atrocious German is my own, so sorry about that.
> 
> -gloria_andrews
> 
> ALSO, finally, we both want everyone to know that you should expect an epilogue sometime in the next month. We already have ideas for it. One in particular that keeps making us weep/die/explode.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, everyone: this is a mush-fest. If you don't like mush, stay away. (Or semi-public sex. Because there's some of that, too.)

Harry winced as he slid into the booth at the Farringdon Arms, pain shooting through his lower back.  He felt Louis sit down next to him, his small hand automatically rubbing at the sore spot, petting Harry a little under the hem of his black t-shirt.

“That’s it,” he huffed, “we’re getting a firmer mattress.”

Harry turned to pout at him as he heard the pub doors open and Niall’s loud voice calling out a greeting to the bartender.  They’d only been back in London for a week, still completely, helplessly wrapped up in each other, and hadn’t gotten to properly catch up with their LSO friends yet.  That’s what they were going to do tonight, over a couple rounds of darts and drafts.  Harry had been looking forward to it.

“But _Lou_ \--”

“I know you like to pretend you’re sleeping on a fluffy cloud, but it isn’t good for your back, love.  Don’t argue with me.”

Niall plopped himself down in the booth with a thud, adjusting his ratty snapback as Harry snorted at Louis.  His eyes were soft and fond as he smiled over at him, nodding as though he knew, he knew what Louis’s real agenda was.  “He pretends it’s for the sake of my back,” he said, turning to Niall, “but you know he’d sleep on a rock if that was allowed.”

Niall blinked once, pointing between them.  “Did you two get married in Germany?”

Both of them stared back at him with round eyes, startled out of the exclusive two-person bubble they’d managed to maintain for the month and a half that they’d stayed in Berlin.

“What?” Louis asked, as Harry made a noise that sounded like a cross between a squeak and a startled _erp_.  “Why would you think that?”

“You look like lovesick idiots.  Your conversations have gotten less intelligible,” Niall explained.  He narrowed his eyes.  “And neither of y’pricks has hugged me yet.”

At that, they both stood up and leaned across the smooth wood table to wrap Niall up in an awkward group hug.  He patted them on the backs of their heads and grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, ye love me now.  Could barely be arsed to email while you were away.”

Harry smiled as he gave Niall one more squeeze and let go, sinking back into the booth.  He’d said _while you were away_ like Harry had just gone on an extended holiday.  Like no matter the specifics, no matter how exactly it happened, he’d have always ended up back in London.  Back with Louis.

Harry cleared his throat, willing himself not to get too emotional before he’d even had any alcohol.  “I did send you that _one_ thing,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Niall’s face twisted up into a disgusted grimace, causing Louis and Harry to both burst out laughing.  “Some things you can’t unsee, lads,” he muttered, raising his hand to flag down a passing waiter.  “Point Amber, please.”

Harry glanced over and caught the mischievous sparkle in Louis’s eye.  They’d gotten a joint text from Niall the evening after Louis’s arrival, demanding to know what had happened between them.  It had been laced with a few choice Irish invectives at the end, directed at Louis for keeping him (and Gladys, and Zayn) in suspense.  Harry had just shrugged and snapped a picture of Louis spread out beneath him -- his sweaty, bare back, the cleft of his arse just visible at the bottom of the frame and Louis’s face in profile, trying to peek over his shoulder to grin at the camera.

 **It’s not polite to interrupt** , Harry had typed out underneath, before pressing Send.

Harry and Louis giggled conspiratorily to each other, clinking their pints together when they were served.  “Wankers,” Niall mumbled fondly.

“Not lately,” Louis said, resting a light arm around Harry’s broad shoulders and making him feel warm inside.  Harry sighed happily, couldn’t help it.  Louis’s love was wrapping him up, zipping through his body out to the tips of his toes.  “Suckers, maybe.”

“Blowhards,” Harry supplied.  Louis giggled, the back of his hand coming up to his mouth as Harry beamed at him.

“Fucking blowhards.”

Before Niall could fake-groan at them again, they were joined by Gladys and Zayn, who were towing an uncertain-looking Liam Payne behind them.  They barrelled into the booth, Zayn squeezing his thin body in next to Louis and Gladys arranging herself in her normal dignified manner on the other side of the table, chucking Niall under the chin for good measure.

“Oh, er,” Liam said, clearly flustered.  “I don’t know if there’s room…”

“Budge, Niall,” Gladys said sternly, fluttering her painted fingernails.  “Your bony elbows are hogging half the bench.”

“Anything fer you, Gladdo.”  Niall smacked a friendly kiss on her cheek and scooted closer to the wall, allowing Liam just enough room to sit.

“Hello, all,” he said, with a stiff wave.  He sat up straight, as though he were trying his best to be acceptable company.  There was a chorus of answering _heys_ and _hellos_ , but Harry just grinned and nuzzled down into Louis’s shoulder, surreptitiously smelling the subtle spice of his cologne, feeling secure and happy.

After they'd all ordered their first round of drinks and toasted to Harry’s return, Zayn cleared his throat.  “So,” he said.  “I hear you’re replacing Maria Santiago-O’Brien, Harry, when she retires in a few weeks?”

Harry nodded, smiling around Louis at Zayn so hard he felt the backs of his dimples digging into his teeth.  “Yup,” he answered.  “I can’t wait to play again.  And Grimshaw says that whenever the LSO needs a guest conductor or an interim conductor in the future, the job’s mine.  Apparently someone convinced the board I’d be dead useful as a double threat.”

Liam flushed and looked down at his hands, fiddling with the edges of the cocktail napkin underneath his sweating pint.

“Yeah, that was all Payno,” Niall said with an amused chuckle.

“Really?”  Louis temporarily lifted his right arm from Harry’s shoulder and shoved it across the table at Liam, who shook it awkwardly.  “Thanks mate.  Did you convince them to reinstate me, too?”

Liam muttered something unintelligible, and probably self-effacing.  “It really wasn’t…” he managed, after clearing his throat.  His shoulders were tense, his lips moving silently as he worked out exactly what he wanted to say next.  “I’m just doing my job.  And -- ” his brown eyes flickered over to meet Harry’s “ -- I wanted to apologize, Maest-, er, Harry.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he felt his smile disappear.  He didn’t remove his chin from Louis’s shoulder, arms still wrapped around him like a clingy, ridiculous koala, but he frowned thoughtfully at Liam.  “Why would you need to apologize, Li?”

Poor Liam looked uncomfortable.  He glanced around at the rest of the group, gaze lingering slightly, perhaps regretfully, on Louis.  “I’ve just felt a bit guilty,” he said.  “That conversation we had right before you left, Harry.  When I was telling you about the board meeting, and said that thing about ‘oh, it’s all down to Tomlinson if you don’t get the job?’  If I’d known, er --”  Louis bit his lip and ducked his head at that, causing Liam to look even more mortified.

“God,” Louis muttered.  Harry gave him a comforting squeeze, and whispered “Shhh, darling,” softly into his ear.

Liam coughed.  “The truth is,” he continued, “I was trying to impress you a bit, you know, with insider gossip.  There were a lot of reasons they might have voted the way they did, most of them financial.  It was more complicated than that, and I thought,” he gulped, “afterwards, when this all came out about you and Louis…”  He cleared his throat again and looked down into his drink, saying the next bit in a rush of quiet words.  “IthoughtI’dbrokenyouup.”

Louis let out a great, big laugh at that, almost shaking Harry off him.  Gladys and Niall started to giggle as well, Zayn smirking around the edges.  Liam looked embarrassed enough to die.  Harry reached out a hand to him through the laughter and closed it over his tense fist, running a thumb over his knuckles.  “You really didn’t,” he said.  “It’s not your fault; I promise.”

“Yeah, great pillocks, both of ‘em,” Niall confirmed, taking a long pull from his bottle and reaching around Gladys to clap Liam on the back.  “They’d have cocked it up no matter what.”

Liam let out a rush of breath, and his shoulders sagged in relief.  “Really?” he squeaked.  “Because after I found out, I just felt so awful, and Louis was, well…”

“A mess,” Louis nodded, eyes twinkling.

“And basically I thought I’d ruined the entire orchestra.”

“I’ll bloody drink to that,” Zayn said, raising his glass.  Harry smiled warmly as they all toasted Liam, and gave Louis’s waist one more squeeze, just for good measure, hoping he could convey how happy he was now and how lucky he felt to be sitting there with them in London.  How grateful he was that Louis had come to Berlin.  He felt an answering tickle from his boyfriend   _(boyfriend he’s your boyfriend Louis Tomlinson is your boyfriend)_ that caused his chest to flood with warmth, and sent shivers out across the sliver of bare skin just above his waist.

“I love you,” Harry whispered as Gladys changed the subject, asking Zayn a question about his next art show.

Past versions of Louis Tomlinson might have shrugged it off or turned it into a joke, let his own insecurities take over and hurt both of them.  But this Louis just turned to Harry, smiled softly at him, and swept a stray curl off his forehead with gentle fingers.  “You too,” he said.

Harry was sure they’d work themselves back up to teasing soon; he’d probably say ridiculous things that would cause Louis to roll his eyes while still flushing with pleasure; Louis’d call him a terrible, soppy human and Harry would insist that he loved it.  But for now they were still healing.  Still knitting themselves back together like a bone that had been broken, and Harry was content to just rest in the sunny glow of their new bond.

“... and then she said that I came across as _intimidating.”_  Harry snapped back the to the conversation, which was about Zayn and his new girlfriend.  He’d met her at the art gallery, apparently.  Louis was whispering backstory into his ear.

“You are, though,” Niall said, thoughtfully.  “All dark and silent and handsome and tattooed.  And an artist.  I’d be proper intimidated, if I wanted to get in your pants.”

“Me too,” Harry nodded.

“I wouldn’t,” Louis scoffed.  “Oh look at me, I play with xylophones for a living!  I have a comic book drawn on me arm!  Real intimidating.”

“Shut up, you.”  Zayn rolled his eyes and punched Louis in the shoulder.  “I have a snake, too.  Snakes are quite badass, I think.”

They sat and drank, and Harry smiled when he felt Louis draw a heart on his thigh underneath the table.

 _You, darling,_ it said.   _You are my favorite person.  I love you the most._

 

“The trick is keeping your wrist absolutely still,” Louis whispered.  He gazed at Harry’s large hand holding the small dart, tracing the lines of ink on his forearm as his fingertips grazed over them.  “It’s like the opposite of vibrato.  Then one quick motion...”  He demonstrated.  “One flick is all it takes.”

Harry took a deep breath.  Louis stepped back, giving him some room to stare down the dart board.  He took a long moment to admire Harry’s jaw, the way his face was totally transformed when he was concentrating hard on something.  His eyebrows were stormy, his full mouth set in a determined line.  Then -- _flick_.  A two. _  
_

“I hit the board!” Harry crowed.  He turned to Louis, and his face was radiating happiness now.  Plump and pink and dimpled, almost young.

“Yeah, baby, you did,” Louis laughed.   _“Oof.”_  He was swamped by a huge man-hug before he could do anything about it, Harry’s arms and lips and knees and everything around him, curls tickling his neck as Louis tried not to fall over into a table full of empty bottles and pint glasses.  “Good job,” he wheezed.

“Victory pints!” Harry cried, stumbling off of Louis and wandering over to the bar with his arms raised.  He was maybe, _slightly_ tipsy.  Louis watched him as he went, suddenly filled up with a weird, buoyant feeling that had been hitting him lately in the oddest situations -- in the shower, queueing up at Tesco’s, whenever he lifted his violin to his shoulder -- and almost forgot to take his turn.  He rattled off a fifteen and a double twenty.  Then he shook out his limbs as he stepped back, head immediately snapping around to watch Harry return with two brimming pint glasses.  The odd, light feeling only intensified.  He felt like he might float away with it.

“Love you,” he said, lightly, before taking a sip of the dark ale.  He grimaced and sputtered.   _“Ugh,_ what _is_ this?”

“No idea,” Harry grinned, shrugging with his hands clasped together in front of him.  “The bartender said I was cute, so I said, ‘surprise me!’”

“Okay, Miss Drunky Flirter,” Louis laughed, wrapping his arm around Harry’s waist in a proprietary way and glancing over to the bar, where a woman in her late twenties with a long, auburn ponytail was watching them with interest, “you stay right here for a while, yeah?”

“M’kay,” Harry said softly, so pleased, before leaning in for a quick kiss.  Which turned into a quick snog.  Niall had to pinch Louis’s bum to remind him that it was their turn at the dartboard again.

Later, after Harry’s initial flush had settled into more of a pleasant, even brightness, Louis caught him fake-complaining to Gladys.  “Seven straight hours of practicing, two pauses of five minutes, what an unproductive day.  Oh no, had to stop for water and a bathroom break, standards slipping!  Got a new mattress, it's a plywood board!”  His voice was teasing, but so full of love; he stared pointedly at Louis as he mimicked him, even doing a little gesture with his wrist that was so perfectly, ridiculously _Louis_ that Louis couldn’t help smiling, even though he was trying to appear indignant.

“Shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes and nudging Harry gently in the ribcage.  “Yes, I’ve been practicing more.  I’m just trying to get back up to speed for Monday.”  It would be his first day back at work in almost two months, and Louis felt a nervous shiver run through him.  He wondered how his colleagues would look at him -- the last time most of them had seen him play, it had been that awful, awful night…

“You’re perfect,” Harry said, landing a wet peck on Louis’s fringe.  “No need to worry.”

“You just want me to be sexually available to you at all times, you animal,” Louis scoffed, only dimly aware of Gladys grinning at them with a keen interest that was maybe only half the motherly sort.  “It makes you pout when I choose Thunder over you.”

Harry pouted dramatically to demonstrate.

“But he chose you over fear when he rushed off to Berlin,” Gladys said.  She nudged Harry’s shoulder and then moved to take her turn at darts.  “So I imagine he can't be too worried about coming back to work.”

Harry nodded, smiling and blinking with placid drunkenness.  The truth is, Louis’s life had felt much more balanced lately.  He was still practicing a lot, of course; he still loved the feeling of being in his own little world with his music and his violin, still relished the feel of his bow in his right hand, the bite of strings beneath his fingers.  But now there was Harry to walk by and touch the small of his back, to encourage him, to make constructive suggestions.  (Louis still felt the dying embers of defensiveness whenever Harry critiqued his play, but so far every time he’d felt like snapping he’d remembered: _Harry is on my side.  He is on my side.  His strength is my strength._  And he’d cooled down, and accepted the criticism.  His playing was the better for it, he could tell.)  Harry helped him in all the little ways, making him sandwiches and playing duets with him just for fun.  Since Louis’s confession in Berlin, it was like Harry’s floodgates had been opened, and everything he’d been holding in for months had come pouring out -- he’d started to vocalize his support and love more and more often, always making sure Louis knew he was enough.  More than enough.  His happiness at home only made Louis more nervous about going back to the LSO, but he could do it.  With Harry beside him, he knew he could.

After the game was over (Louis, Harry and Liam having lost spectacularly to The Biscuits, of course), they all piled into the booth again for one last drink before heading out into the dark, soft mid-summer rain.

“So, gimme the truth,” Zayn said.  “We know those two are having massive amounts of sex.”  He pointed at Louis and Harry just as Harry tried to tug Louis up onto his lap, almost spilling their shared pint of beer.  “And they were doing it before, in secret.” _  
_

Niall snorted and muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “Well, _some_ of us have eyes…”

Zayn rounded on him.  “But that’s old news.  What I reallywant to know is… how many times have _you_ two gotten down?”  He gestured between Niall and Gladys, totally serious. _  
_

Niall immediately turned beet red as Gladys chuckled, a wicked gleam in her eye. _“You have!”_ Louis shouted, leaning forward on Harry’s lap and pointing at Niall’s reddening cheeks.  “I knew it!  Harry, I told you!”

 _“Christ,”_ Niall finally looked up, sighing.  “Gladdo and me’re just friends, okay?  Y’nosy British bastards.”

Gladys shrugged, tipping back the last of her pint.  “He tried… but I turned him down.”

The rest of the table erupted into delighted hoots and howls as Gladys raked the dirty blond hair out of Niall’s eyes with her red-lacquered fingernails and added, “Told him he was cute, but not my type.”

Niall chuckled then, his brief bout of embarrassment characteristically forgotten.  “You’re a classy lady, Gladys.  No regrets.”

“Cheers,” Harry smiled, and they all drank their final mouthfuls to that. _  
_

They slid sloppily out of the booth in a happy jumble of loose limbs, settling their tabs at the bar before stepping out to hail taxis home.  Harry was out in the rain, scuffed suede boots getting stained as Louis waited under the narrow awning.  He shivered once, hugging himself as a few stray drops splattered on his glasses.

Gladys came up to him while Niall went round to get the Astra and gave him a thorough hug.  “I’m very proud of you,” she whispered.  Louis smiled at her.  She winked, and then Harry was motioning him into a cab, holding his light jacket over his head to shield Louis’s way from the sidewalk as much as he could.

“Thanks, Gladys,” he replied, quietly.  “I’ll see you Monday.”

He ducked into the taxi and felt Harry settle comfortably, if a bit damply, in beside him.  They both fixed their hair, Harry with a rough shake and Louis with a delicate flick of his wrist.  Harry pulled Louis into his body and ran his fingers lazily up and down his arm until they were home.

_Home._

Louis still technically had his little house near Paddington Station, but he’d agreed to sell it as soon as he could and move into Harry’s flat in Hampstead.  It was perfect for them, open and modern, with plenty of space for them to practice together -- convenient, now that they were going to be playing in the same orchestra.  Every day, it felt more like Louis’s.

Harry took his hand as they climbed the familiar staircase up to the third floor, and keyed them in.  “Get these wet clothes off,” he muttered.  He went for Louis’s shirt first, then his own trousers as Louis eagerly shuffled out of the rest of his clothing.

“So how drunk are you?” Louis asked, stepping into Harry’s space as soon as he was naked, pushing him toward the bathroom and the promise of a shared shower before bed.

“What did Gladys mean?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden.  Louis stopped.  Harry blushed, and twisted his fingers together, shoulders bunched.  “When she said you chose me over fear…  What did she mean, exactly?  Louis, what exactly made you decide to come to Berlin?  Did, like, Gladys have something to do with that?”

“Oh, God,” Louis laughed, immediately easing Harry’s tenseness.  “It’s a little embarrassing, love, I’m warning you.”

Harry looked up again, with bright eyes and a smirk on his face.  “What is?” he asked. _  
_

Louis eased into Harry’s arms, burying his head in his neck and nuzzling at his tattooed collarbones.  “Remember when I told you about how I overheard Amelia Frasier-Lind and Taggie Diversey gossiping?  They said you were going to Germany?”

“Mhmm,” Harry murmured, his fingers running through the soft, slightly curled hair at the nape of Louis’s neck.

“Well,” sighed Louis, “I left this part out before because I feel so dumb about it now, but Taggie said that she wasn’t surprised you were going to end up in Berlin.  She said you and Florian were, like… involved… and he was in love with you…”

Harry snorted out a laugh, his whole body rocking with it.  “Shut up!” cried Louis, wiggling out of his arms and giving one of his nipples a light twist.  “I was devastated!  And then you showed up with him to my concert!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry giggled, stepping forward to wrap Louis in his arms again, shivering -- they were naked, and the flat was cool -- and tugging him back toward the bathroom, to the warmth of their shower.  “I didn’t realize how that would look, I guess.  I just needed a friend.  I had to come… when I was invited to the concert; I had to see you.   _Obviously_ I had to see you.  But I couldn’t do it by myself.”

Louis nodded, flipping on the bathroom light and arranging two fresh towels on the rack for them as Harry turned on the spray, testing the temperature.  They both liked for it to be as hot as possible without actually burning.  “I know what you mean,” Louis said, shifting his weight and rubbing at one of his biceps.  “About needing…  The night before at the party, I couldn’t stop looking at you, even though it felt so awful.  Had to run off to the toilets, almost puked.  I just didn’t know what to do.  But I made up my mind that no matter what, I couldn’t hurt you again.  Bottom line.  And I thought you were happy with Florian, so.  I didn’t try to approach you.”

Harry frowned with concern, stepping into the shower and holding out a hand to help Louis in with him.  “You almost puked?”

Louis shrugged, and hugged him, pushing them both under the cleansing water.  They could still hear the storm outside, but here they were together and Louis felt utterly safe.   _Thank God we made it,_ he thought to himself as he breathed in the steam.  Harry started to massage something nice-smelling through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, quietly, holding Louis gently to him as his big hands kept the shampoo away from his eyes, thumbs smoothing his temples.  “About Florian.  I’m so sorry you felt that way.  I should’ve…  It was you the whole time, you know.  It was always only you.”  Louis nodded and shuddered a little against him, and they both just stood there for a while under the warm spray, Harry pressing soft kisses to his forehead.  He knew Harry was waiting for the rest of it, waiting to hear how it all connected to Gladys, but he wasn’t in a rush.

“So I had been, um, writing the thing…” Louis started, finally, pulling back and digging his thumbs into Harry’s v-lines, running them up and down, gazing at his boyfriend’s unbelievable torso.  “And when I finished, Niall was having this barbecue, and I hadn’t been out of my house in _days.”_

Harry hummed quietly to show that he was listening and interested while he grabbed a loofah and started running it over the outsides of Louis’s arms and down his pecs.  As he worked, pulling Louis closer to him so that he could wash his back and the dip in his spine, he started to get hard.  Louis could feel it against his thigh and when he pulled away, he automatically looked down in wonder.  He couldn’t help it.  Harry’s cock was gorgeous, red and full and starting to stand up from his body just from their closeness.  It was going to get Louis hard, too, in a second.

“So I went, and you sent Niall that coupley picture of Florian and Anja -- _God,_ Harry…”  Harry had started to wash his bum, kneading it apart and gently wiping at his hole.  The steam from the shower had fogged the glass door, and they began to lazily rut against each other.

“And when you saw the picture…?” Harry prompted.  Louis had gotten a little distracted.

“Right.  So even after I saw it, I was just sitting there.  Paralyzed.  I didn’t know what to do, and I was still like, _I can’t hurt him again.  I can’t risk hurting him again._  But then Gladys pointed out that it was really my own fear holding me back.  That it was the only thing left standing in the way of me going to Berlin.”  Louis huffed a whine into Harry’s ear as he felt a soft, gentle finger breach him, Harry’s other hand palming and squeezing his arse with a bit more urgency.

“And that’s when you showed up at my door in the middle of the night, looking half-crazed.”

“Passionate, I’d say.” _  
_

“Well, you are correct about everything,” Harry observed, eyelids fluttering shut as Louis began to stroke him.  “Right?” _  
_

“Mhmm,” Louis hummed.  “Except the Florian thing.”

“Okay, definitely time to stop talking about Florian now.”  Harry pulled Louis even closer and gasped as Louis rubbed his thumb lightly over the head of his cock, catching some slick precome before it got washed away by the shower.  “Shit…”

“So good,” Louis murmured.

Harry only whined in response, pushing his finger in deeper, fucking Louis open as he brought their lips together.

“S’always so good…”

*

After, when they were in Harry’s fluffy cloud bed together, skin still warm and rain still tapping at the large windows, Harry said, “She’s pretty wise.  Gladys, I mean.” _  
_

Louis shrugged.  “Yeah, well.  She has, like, thirty years on us or summat.”

Harry rolled over and began toying with Louis’s damp hair, staring off into space as he snuggled down under his crisp white sheets.  “It’s just good advice, though.  About not letting fear get in the way of doing things.”  There was something cautious and a bit searching in his voice. _  
_

Louis breathed out heavily and turned to face him, snagging his chin and tugging his head so that their eyes met.  “What are you getting at, Styles?” he asked.

Harry grinned and nuzzled his face into Louis’s clean, hot neck.  “You’re scarily perceptive when you’re not being a thick-headed idiot.”  Louis snorted and reached down to smack him lightly on the ass, and Harry giggled.  “Seriously, though,” he said, unearthing his face and breathing in deeply, tracing Louis’s jawline with his fingers.  “Have you thought about showing it to anyone?”

“What?”  Louis frowned.  He had no idea what Harry was talking about.  Show what to whom?

“Your… your writing,” Harry said, apparently surprised that Louis wasn’t following him.

Louis laughed.  “What?” he repeated, softly.  “Why would I show anyone...?  I mean, I know I showed you, but…” _  
_

“I think people would like it; that’s all,” Harry shrugged.  He pulled Louis closer to him and started to card his fingers through his hair soothingly.  “Well, no.  It’s not all.  I think you’re fucking _brilliant_ and honestly a little bit selfish because your music needs to be played.  It’s begging to be played.  And I just want people to know what a genius you are.  And I’m rambling.”

Louis groaned a little.  “Babe…”

 _“I’m serious._  Look, I tried to compose once.  When I was twelve years old I wrote a song called ‘A November’s Day.’  It was unbelievably horrible.  Just the worst.”  Harry started humming a slow, turgid melody into Louis’s ear, making him giggle with a sudden burst of love as he imagined a prepubescent version of Harry leaning over his desk, writing whole note after boring, awful whole note with a look of intense concentration on his face. _  
_

“Really is fucking terrible, Styles, oh my God.”

Harry stopped humming, smiling softly at Louis as he ran his hands over his arms and down his waist.  “See, the world deserves better music than that.  Please tell me you’ll at least show Grimmy.”

Louis felt a small knot of fear twist inside his gut at the thought.  It had been nerve-wracking enough giving Harry the piece that he’d written for him, but Grimshaw?  God.   _It’s not that great,_ he thought, old instincts taking over as Harry’s breathing started to even out against his chest and he stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling.   _Harry’s exaggerating.  It’s not that good…  
_

_But…_

“You’re such a wonderful composer, Lou.  Maybe just trust me?” he heard Harry whisper into the dark.

Louis leaned down to kiss his forehead.  “Okay,” he said.  “I do, you know.  I always will.  Doesn’t mean I’m not a bit scared.”

“I understand.”

But with Harry’s warm body wrapped around him, fast drifting off to sleep, Louis wondered.  Was he scared anymore, really?  Or was it just habit, keeping all his cards so close to his chest?  He had Harry.  Harry was on his side.   _Always, always..._  Something was telling him there was nothing left to be afraid of.

 

Harry looked the vendor square in the eye.  “Yes,” he said.  “I do need all of them.”  He pressed an open palm down on the enormous stack of newspapers, setting his shoulders defensively.  These were his, goddammit.  No backing down, no being nice.  This was Harry’s line in the sand.  He’d buy the whole newsstand if he had to.

“But _why?”_ asked the old man grumpily, grimy fingers sneaking up to scratch at his close-cropped salt and pepper hair.  “What could you possibly need with…”

“Why do you care why?”  Harry cringed inwardly as he heard the sternness in his own voice -- he’d rather catch flies with honey, like his mum always said -- but he kept a protective hand on the papers.  “I, um,” he dug his thick wallet out of his jacket with his left hand, hips twisting about awkwardly.  “I can pay you in cash, I think.”

The man huffed.  “My regular customers en’t gonna like it one bit.  Mr. Healy, ‘e always comes at four o’clock; always needs his Times, always tips me...”

“Look,” Harry said, peeling the top newspaper off the stack and flipping quickly to the Arts section.  He pointed to the full-page spread, at Louis’s smiling profile gazing up toward the headline: _Tomlinson Triumphant._  “That is my boyfriend.  So.  I need like, five hundred copies of this at least.  Please?”  Harry smiled tentatively, letting his cheeks dimple.

The vendor rolled his eyes and sighed.  “That’s your boyfriend, there?” he asked.  He turned the page around and took a closer look at the story.  “‘e got into the Times?”

Harry nodded frantically, pleading with practically his whole being.

“Fine,” the man said, pushing the big stack across the counter toward Harry.  “Take ‘em.  And congratulations, I suppose.”

“Hoorayyy,” Harry said quietly, face stretching into a full smile as he slammed down about fifty quid and scooped up the papers.  He left one on the counter, and shook his head when the vendor held it out to him.  “For Mr. Healy,” he said.  “With my compliments.”

“Ta, lad.”

Harry whipped around the corner and up the two blocks that led to the small street his building was on.  It was a beautiful, bright fall afternoon, the Sunday after their first two performances of Louis’s double concerto.  All the reviews had been positive, of course, but this particular article in the Times was special.  Harry couldn’t help smiling like a lunatic over the big stack of newsprint that was currently tucked under his chin, grinning at everyone he passed.   _Louis’s probably gonna think I’ve gone mental, too, when he sees me._  The thought just made him grin harder.   _I love him so much.  He’s just going to have to deal with it._

He paused when he got to the door of the building; arms too full to grab his keys out of his pocket.  Luckily, Mrs. Fielding from the first floor happened to be on her way out.

“Hello, Ha -- oh, my,” she said.  She was tiny and prim, a proper Englishwoman who always seemed to be wearing a different floral hat.  “That’s quite a lot of copies.”

“Louis’s in the Times!” Harry said, breathlessly.  He set the stack down in the entryway, noticing how much better his back was feeling recently, after having swapped his “fluffy cloud mattress" for something a bit firmer.

“Really?” Mrs. Fielding said, pulling a dainty pair of reading spectacles out of her purse as Harry held out the Arts section.  “Tomlinson Triumphant,” she began to read.  “Oh, lovely picture.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied, smiling madly, as if he’d had something to do with it.

Mrs. Fielding read the article to herself, murmuring over certain parts of it and pointing sentences out to Harry, who nodded.  He’d been poring over it since he’d noticed Louis’s face staring back at him on the tube that morning, practically had it memorized already.

_Four months ago, concertgoers at the Barbican saw something unusual.  Rising star Louis Tomlinson, in the midst of a performance of Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1, froze up onstage.  His arm dropped in the middle of a phrase, the notes suddenly seeming to fly away from him.  He fled the concert hall that night, and those of us old romantics who are mired in London’s classical music scene wondered if we’d ever hear from him again -- he took a break from his duties as concertmaster and didn’t show himself in public for a couple of months.  We’d seen it all before: the promising young virtuoso, suddenly thrust into the spotlight, buckling under the pressure.  They usually don’t come back._

_But then a funny thing happened.  Instead of spending his leave of absence from the London Symphony Orchestra wallowing in self-pity or “finding himself” on a soul-searching trek through some mountain range or other, Tomlinson apparently got right down to composing.  Upon his re-emergence this weekend as not only one of the most technically and artistically gifted concertmasters the LSO has ever been blessed with, but also as an exciting new voice on the composing scene, I can only stare at him in awe.  What lionhearted constitution does it take to bounce back from such a moment of professional failure?  I honestly think it’s more toughness than I could muster._

The article went on to praise both Louis’s performance and his writing.  The reviewer called it “constantly surprising,” and “modern yet pleasing to those of us who still love a traditional phrase.”  The standing ovation was mentioned, and their kiss at the end of the first performance -- Harry got warm thinking about it.

_So perhaps Harry Styles has had something to do with Tomlinson’s comeback.  If he has, I can only thank him.  They certainly looked more than happy to share a spotlight with each other.  The two have apparently been dating..._

This was one of the sections that Mrs. Fielding pointed out to Harry, and he bit back another shy grin, rolling his eyes.  He was just so proud of Louis.  Proud of both of them, really, for finally figuring things out.   _Proper power couple now._  He told Mrs. Fielding to keep the copy (“‘s why I bought them”) and hurried up the stairs to the flat, a bounce in his step.

The front door was unlocked, and Harry managed to wedge himself through with the stack of papers, humming the main theme of Louis’s concerto under his breath.

“Babe!” he called.  “I’m back!”

There was no answer.  Harry glanced around the open layout of the loft and didn’t see Louis anywhere.  There was a trail of Special K leading to the coffee table in front of the telly, where Harry found a nearly empty bowl -- just a ring of milk and a few soggy flakes at the bottom.  He peeked into the bathroom, but it was deserted, light off.  Steam from a recent shower and a towel left on the floor.

“Babe?” Harry called again, questioningly.  He couldn’t imagine Louis would leave without locking the door to the flat, unless there had been some emergency.

That’s when he heard the sharp sound of a sniff.  It came from upstairs, over the railing in the bedroom.  Harry squinted, but he couldn’t see anyone there.  He shifted the heavy stack of newsprint in his arms and began to pad up the spiral staircase, hearing more wet sounds -- some sniffles, a watery sigh.

“Lou?” he asked.  He got to the top of the staircase and found his boyfriend sitting on the floor, wedged in between the brick wall and the edge of the bed, half-empty cardboard box nearby, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands.  He was crying.

Before Harry could ask what was wrong, Louis glanced up at him and laughed weakly through red-rimmed eyes.  “That’s an unreasonable amount of newspapers, love.”

“Um…”  Harry’s pulse was skyrocketing.  Something was clearly the matter, but Louis was smiling at him through his tears.  “There’s an article,” Harry said.  He walked forward a few steps and set the stack on the bed before sinking to his knees.  “Was gonna show you… ‘s all about how, how fucking _brave_ you are and how great your writing is.  I was planning on handing one out to everyone we come in contact with for the next five years or so.”

“Oh,” Louis hiccuped, and laughed again.  “That’s so nice.”

Harry put a hand on his knee and rubbed it soothingly, nodding toward the stack of loose leaf that Louis had clutched tight to his chest.  “What have you got there, then?”

“I, um, found -- found this...”  Louis stammered.  He took in a shaky breath and wiped the back of his hand across his wet eyes.  “I’d just totally forgotten…”  Harry reached out for the tattered sheaf of paper, looking at Louis for permission before he tipped it forward, away from Louis’s chest.  He saw lines of staff, and a piece of pale pink stationery.

“Your quartet,” he breathed.

“With your comments,” Louis croaked out.  “Before, I didn’t read them.  I didn’t read them because I thought you were leaving, and also because I was so embarrassed and scared of what you were going to say, and I just shoved the whole thing into a box somewhere and forgot about it and today I decided I should probably finally unpack the last of my stuff, and…”  He gasped, losing the thread of his long sentence.  “God, I’m a terrible mess.”

“Why are you, um…”  Harry reached out to cradle Louis’s face in his hand, wiping away some stray tears with his thumb.

“Because I’m such an idiot, and your comments were so lovely and I’m _so_ stupid.  I feel so stupid.  Such a fucking moron, really.  I should have read this before, maybe I’d have realized -- _Harry.”_

Harry had bent down and looped his arms behind Louis’s back and under his knees, was scooping him up and laying him out on the bed before Louis could do anything about it.

“Oof.”  They both collapsed onto the duvet, papers fluttering about wildly.  “Harry, what --”

“Stop saying mean things about my boyfriend.”

Louis’s face split into a weak grin.  Harry could see a couple of different instincts warring on his face, and for a moment they were in limbo.  He caught a glimpse of a future where Louis couldn’t forgive himself for their break-up, or for what had happened all those years ago at Interlochen, a little rotten spot at the center of their relationship where the guilt kept gnawing at Louis until he shut down by degrees and…  Then Harry saw something else.  He saw the bravery, the same lionhearted quality that the article had mentioned.  He saw a future where Louis accepted their past, accepted his part in it, and accepted that he had grown since.  A future in which Louis could be his best self for Harry.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry said, “and I’ve already forgiven you.  And I want you.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathed.  “Me too.  God, so much.”

His face evened out into stunning brilliance, and that was when Harry knew they were really going to make it.

“All right, Styles, enough of this soppy shit.  Read me that article.  Make me blush.”

 

Louis gazed down at his boyfriend, who had just replaced him in the cushioned black chair.  He looked a little tense and fidgety already, his pupils blown and his plump bottom lip caught in his teeth.  The tattoo artist’s back was turned; she was setting up her station again, making sure all of her equipment was in place and sterilized.  Louis took the opportunity to duck down and murmur in Harry’s ear.  “All right, love?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed back.  He gazed down at the plastic wrap taped over Louis’s freshly-done ink, squirming in his tight jeans as he settled himself down in the chair.  “‘S gonna be gorgeous.  Yours turned out fab.”

Louis ran his fingers lightly over the outside of Harry’s wrist, right where his design was going to go.  Harry shuddered involuntarily.  Louis smirked.  He knew what getting new tattoos did to Harry.   _Makes me feel sort of floaty,_ Harry had explained the night before, huddled around him in bed.   _And I just focus on the pain, and…  I don’t know why.  But.  I usually get hard?_

Fuck if Louis Tomlinson wasn’t going to put that information to use.

“Be a good boy for the artist,” he warned, bringing his hand up to thread his fingers through Harry’s curls.  He gave them a sharp tug and heard Harry stifle a gasp.  “Don’t get too excited.”

They both liked this sort of thing, every once in a while.  Louis in particular loved riling Harry up and getting a spanking out of him, always coming fast and hard as the sharp slaps brought him back to their first night together.  That’s not what this was about, though, and Harry wasn’t the same way.  For him it was a little more of an embarrassment kink, Louis had come to realize.  When the idea of _Louis embarrassing Harry a little_ was brought solely into the realm of the bedroom, there was no more guilt and neither of them could get enough of it.  Louis was careful not to deliberately give him erections in public too often, though.  He saved that particular treat for special occasions.

Like getting couples tattoos.

“I’ll be watching you the whole time,” Louis whispered, before settling himself back in a chair across the room from Harry.   _Don’t get too excited_ and _I’ll be watching_ was basically a recipe for an immediate Harry Styles boner, especially in this situation.  Louis smiled.

“Ready, love?” the artist chirped.  She got into position and flipped the gun on; a loud buzzing filled the parlor.

Harry just nodded, staring at Louis with dark eyes.  Louis wasn’t sure how Harry could look wrecked before they’d even begun, but it was so fucking enjoyable he didn’t care.  Harry was absolutely entrancing to watch.  As soon as the needle touched his skin his eyes closed and his pink lips parted perfectly, the tendons in his neck standing out as he tried to breathe.  His lower half was almost writhing, thigh muscles flinching and Louis could tell that his toes were trying to curl inwards against the soles of his boots.

“Stay still for me,” the artist warned, and Harry’s eyes fluttered open again to send Louis a pleading look.  Louis just shook his head in mock disappointment, glancing down pointedly at the growing bulge in Harry’s tight jeans.   _Couldn’t control yourself, huh?_ he’d whisper later, feeling Harry shiver with pleasure against him.   _That’s so fucking embarrassing, Harry.  In public, where everyone could see..._

Actually, they’d booked the last appointments of the day -- night, really; it was already dark outside -- and the only other people in the parlor were the owner, who was currently doing something back in the stockroom, and the artist, who was focused solely on her work.  But it was the idea of the thing that was hot.  Louis made a bet with himself how many seconds it would take to bring Harry off after he finally stopped teasing him and got a hand on his cock.  Under ten, he thought.  Just then, he saw Harry’s mouth open in a silent gasp.  Louis could tell that he was fully hard now, straining against his jeans, and his own cock gave a twitch of interest.

“Almost done,” the artist said.  “Looks beautiful.”

Sweat was beading on Harry’s brow by the time she turned the gun off.  Louis gazed down at his obscene-looking crotch as Harry sat up in the chair, bringing his right arm around to casually cover himself a little, and Louis sighed as though he were bored.  As though he weren’t involved in a losing fight of his own against the excitement that was curling in his gut and tingling out through his dick.  The artist went through the aftercare instructions as she wrapped up Harry’s wrist, and while they were occupied Louis quickly paid the owner so that he could get Harry out of there as soon as possible.   _God_.  This whole plan was starting to backfire a bit, honestly.  Louis was the twitchy one now, and Harry just looked serene and “floaty,” like he’d described, in a place beyond embarrassment.

“Come along, dear,” Louis said imperiously, when they were ready to go.  “Got some errands to run, remember?”  He was self-conscious, not quite meeting the eyes of the artist as she waved good-bye.

“Right,” Harry drawled, his voice about an octave lower and twenty beats per minute slower than normal.  Louis briefly wondered if he could use a metronome to actually time the difference, and then shook his head and rolled his eyes at his own ridiculousness. _Honestly, Harry fucking Styles._

“What errands, Lou?” Harry asked with a glint in his eye as Louis dragged him out the door of the tattoo parlor and around the corner into a secluded alleyway.  Louis felt a burning in his chest, because now _he_ was the one being teased.  Obviously.  Obviously, that’s how this was always going to turn out.

“You told me that on purpose, last night,” he said accusingly, as he looked in both directions down the deserted alley before he pushed Harry back -- with a little force, but not too roughly -- into the brick wall under a fire escape.  Harry just grinned, dim orange light from the streetlamps barely illuminating his face.

This sort of give and take was electric.  Like a healthier expression of their early relationship, always the challenge to see who’d get the upper hand.  But for the sake of play, and sex, with deep love running through the interactions to ground them, make them both feel totally secure.  Louis fucking _loved_ it.

“You knew you’d get… and that I’d…”

Harry nodded, so clearly pleased with himself.  It made Louis’s blood boil and his body ache.  But all he had to do was put a hand on the hot bulge in Harry’s jeans and squeeze through the denim to reassert his control.  Harry’s smug grin was gone in a second, groan rising in his throat.  “Home?” he asked, brokenly.

“Hmm,” Louis pondered, taking his hand away and rubbing at the scruff under his chin.  “Home’s a long way off, Harry.  You’ve worked me up so bad I don’t think I can wait.”

Harry made a soft little noise in his throat, his eyes widening.  “Lou…  But.  We’re.   _Lou…”_

They’d agreed on a safeword for situations like this, and _Lou_ was not it.  Louis smiled confidently as he dug his thumbs into the faint softness at Harry’s hips and thrust him back against the wall again.  “You wouldn’t even make it all the way home, I bet,” he murmured, excited for his master plan to be back on track.  “‘S what, fifteen blocks?  You’re still so hard, baby.  And you’re so _big_ , everyone would see, and I know how much that gets to you…  Bet you’d come in your pants before we even made it to our street.  And that wouldn’t be very fun for me, would it?”

Harry shook his head breathlessly, gazing down into Louis’s eyes in wonder.

“I want to be the only one to make you come, baby.”

Harry gave a choked-off little cry, trying to thrust his hips forward against Louis’s tight grip on his waist.  “This is so…” he breathed.  Then, “Fuck, Louis, _do something.”_

Louis grinned cheekily and pressed a kiss to Harry’s flushed cheek before dropping to his knees in the alley and easing Harry’s leaking cock out of his jeans.  “Love you,” he said, as he gazed up at his boy, causing Harry to repress a soft string of barely intelligible _“Fuck--loveyoutoofuck, fuck...”_ as Louis went down on him.  He felt Harry’s hand through his hair, tugging frantically, his movements jerky and uncoordinated because he was so fucking close already.  Louis lapped up the underside of his cock, relishing the heavy weight on his tongue, sucking hard and fast, hollowing his cheeks as he took Harry, sputtering, all the way to the back of his throat.

“Jesus, Lou,” Harry breathed. His balls were starting to tighten up, cock unbelievably hard now, and Louis had to press the heel of his hand rather firmly against the front of his own trousers to keep the pulsing heat from spilling over down there.  Not allowed to come in his pants.  Nope.

It wasn’t long before Harry came with a cry, shooting into Louis’s mouth and a little over his lips, body rocking with the force of his orgasm.  He’d tugged on Louis’s hair rather violently, and was now soothing it, petting it with his huge hands as Louis tucked him back inside his jeans with a couple of fond pats and another furtive glance to make sure they were still alone.  Even though, technically.  They were in public.

“My beautiful, filthy boy,” Louis whispered, making Harry giggle.  He ground his still-clothed erection into Harry’s hip with a moan.

Then it was Harry’s big left hand encompassing him, stroking him hard and fast and warm, and Louis could look down and see flashes of the new treble clef on Harry’s wrist through the clear plastic dressing.  His whole body was on fire, spasming, and he bit down on Harry’s shoulder hard through his flannel shirt as he fell over the edge.

He might have blacked out for a second or two, because the next thing he knew, his dick was back in his trousers and Harry was sucking come off his fingers and _Christ_.  That was good.  Louis felt deliciously warm and sated.

“Oh Lord,” he giggled, as he wiped a few stray drops off the upper thigh of Harry’s jeans.  They left tiny stains, but Louis was pretty sure they weren’t too noticeable.  “Did we really just do that?”

“I feel very dangerous,” Harry mused with a grin, mostly back to normal now but for a slight flush high on his cheekbones and a light sheen of sweat on his brow.

Louis laughed.  He took Harry’s elbow like they were some old-fashioned couple involved in a promenade, and escorted him out into the main street.  Some shops were still open, a few people walking by on the sidewalk, not giving them a second glance.  “Do you think we’ll still be this ridiculous when we’re fifty?” he asked.

“I expect you’ll still be absurd and demanding, yes.”

Louis hip checked Harry gently and pulled him closer.  He felt a little twinge from the new ink on his right wrist and glanced down at it, tugging up the sleeve of his jumper to stare.  Bass clef.  He put his right hand in Harry’s left, and both of them grinned.  Bass clef, treble clef.

The walk home was short, and full of contentment.

 

Harry was standing in front of his pigeon hole in the post room early Friday evening, poring over a brand-new piece of music, when Niall clapped him on the shoulder.  He made an undignified yipping noise and jumped slightly in response.

“Sorry, mate,” Niall said, laughing apologetically.  “Glad I caught you, though.  Louis’s still over at St. Luke’s, in yer old office.  Told me t’tell ya just to go over ‘n get ‘im whenever yer ready to go.”

Harry snorted, shoving the new cello part into his bag.  “We’re just going to have to walk all the way back to the tube station,” he grumbled.

Niall shrugged, “You know how he gets when he’s…”  He pretended to concentrate incredibly hard, motioning with his hand like he was writing something down.  “You know, composing or whatever.”

“Could’ve just texted me,” Harry pointed out.

“Said he did but you didn’t respond...” Niall mumbled, grabbing a stack of post from his cubby and frowning down at the sticky note on top.  “Fuck.  Margery’s holding the rest of my post hostage in her office…  I gotta go.”

Harry smirked and nodded goodbye, amused by Niall’s ongoing standoff with the post room lady.  He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket to check for missed messages; it had been on silent since sectional that afternoon and he’d forgotten to switch it back to vibrate.

_Harold where are you?  I’m working in your old office…_

_You should be here too. ;) ;)_

Harry felt a little shiver of arousal just at the sight of the winky faces.  He laughed at himself before blushing with the realization the Louis had essentially used Niall as his emissary for what amounted to a booty call.

 _“Louis…”_ he chided aloud, rolling his eyes affectionately and hustling just a bit more on his way out of the Barbican.

Harry bit his lip over a grin as he made his way to the old church, filled up with love for his boyfriend.  Tomorrow would be their first anniversary.  Well, it would be a year since that first performance of Don Juan, anyway.  A year since the night the dam had finally broken, and Harry was certainly counting it as their anniversary.  They hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but he’d told Louis that he’d made reservations for dinner and Louis had smiled up at him with crinkling eyes and kissed him nice and slow.  So Harry assumed they were on the same page.  Maybe this was just Louis’s way of getting the celebrations underway early.  Harry had no problem with that whatsoever.

His stomach fluttered with nervous excitement when he thought about the present he’d gotten Louis.  It had arrived in the post a week before, and he’d been carrying it around in his bag ever since, wrapped up nicely with a ribbon.  Partially to prevent Louis from finding it in the loft, but also because he felt a strange need to keep it close at all times.

 _I hope he likes it,_ Harry thought, as he entered St. Luke's and cut through Jerwood Hall, his cheeks heating up just at the thought of Louis opening it.  He rolled his eyes at himself.   _He will, you moron; he loves you too._

Sometimes he still had to remind himself that it was all real, that Louis was his and he was Louis’s.  Every so often he’d get this irresistible itch to touch all the parts of Louis’s body -- to squeeze the muscles of his thighs, feel the bones in his ankles, run a finger down the tendons in his wrist, pinch the perfect fat on hips -- just to reassure himself of Louis’s existence, of his presence right next to Harry.  The best part was that he was allowed to.  Louis teased him mercilessly about being a sap while simultaneously indulging his every sentimental whim.  It was perfect.

 _Louis is the best boyfriend in the whole entire universe,_ Harry thought smugly, as he walked swiftly across the secluded back lobby.  He snorted out a laugh at his own dorky ridiculousness.   _What a relief that no one else can ever hear you thinking, you big nerd._

His pulse picked up pleasantly when he reached the door to the office and took a deep breath, collecting himself a bit.  Louis’d had an upright piano moved in a few months back to help with composing, but Harry didn’t hear any sound of it, or the violin, through the door.  He didn’t see any light coming out beneath it, either.

 _Hope I didn’t miss him,_ he thought, as he raised his hand to knock.

“Come in.”  Louis’s voice drifted through the door, remote and tinny, and Harry smiled in relief, pushing down on the handle to open it.

“Thought maybe I’d m--” and then Harry’s words died in his throat, because Louis wasn’t working on a composition and he most definitely hadn’t summoned Harry to his old office just to have hot, nostalgic anniversary sex before they went home.

Louis was leaning back against the edge of the desk with his feet crossed at the ankles, holding a small black velvet box in one hand.  The only light in the room came from the candles flickering on either side of him, and there were flower petals strewn everywhere.  Louis must have changed out of his normal cords and jumper combo at some point during the day, because now he was wearing a crisp white button-down and perfectly-fitted grey chinos and he looked unfathomably handsome.  Most beautiful of all were his eyes, as usual.  They glittered like dark gemstones in the low light, soft and brimming with love.

“Hi baby,” Louis said quietly, his amusement at Harry’s surprise clear in his voice.  “Why don’t you come all the way in?”

Harry nodded, eyes wide, his heart galloping in his chest.  He swallowed hard as he pulled the door shut behind him, stepping fully into the room and setting his bag on the floor.

“How was your day?” Louis asked.  Harry wasn’t quite sure in the dim candlelight, but it looked like there were maybe already tears in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“O-okay,” Harry managed to croak.  “Was okay.”

“Me too,” Louis said.  He chuckled, and batted his eyelashes at Harry before he gestured to the display of romantic trappings surrounding him.  “Didn’t want to light too many candles and set off the sprinklers or summat, but I knew I had to get this place proper lovey-dovey for you, so…”

Harry huffed out a laugh and wiped at his eyes with a nervous hand.

“You know I love you, don’t you, sweetheart?” Louis asked.  His voice wavered a touch as he stood fully upright and took a single step toward Harry.

Harry nodded, his breath hitching.  His eyes were swimming with tears now and joy was spreading through his body with each heartbeat, all of his nerves sparking with it.

Louis closed the gap between them, placing his free hand on the back of Harry’s neck and giving it a squeeze when Harry trembled at the contact.  “I love you so much.  Y-you give me so much, Harry.  Make me so -- so strong,” Louis whispered, shaking his head once in disbelief.

He rose onto his tiptoes to press a single, lingering kiss to Harry’s forehead and then dropped to one knee.

 _“Louis,”_ Harry let out in a happy sob of a laugh, tears streaming down his face.  It felt like he was floating half a foot off the floor.

Louis laughed too, his own face damp.  He clutched Harry’s left hand and kissed the tattoo on his wrist before running a gentle thumb over the dark ink.

“We're strong together… and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Louis breathed out, squeezing Harry’s fingers, his eyes shining so bright as he looked up at him, “my beautiful, _beautiful_ boy.  Will you marry me?”

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath.  Strange snaking patterns of sensation were moving over his skin.  He felt even lighter now, heady, like the love expanding inside of him was magically diminishing the pull of gravity on his body and he actually, literally weighed less as a result.  “Y-yes, please.  Please,” he finally managed to bleat out.  His face was completely tear-streaked, his left leg twitching slightly from the mix of endorphins and adrenaline in his bloodstream.  “Of course.  Of course I will.  Yes.  Please, yes.”

Louis fumbled with the box for a few seconds, the nervous tremor in his hands causing his fingers to disobey him and slip.  Harry let out a thick, wet laugh as he struggled.

“Oh, so hilarious, Hazza,” Louis said, making a frustrated noise when the hinge of the box snapped shut one more time.  “Maybe I won’t give you the ring after all, huh?  Did you ever think about that?”

Harry giggled in response.  “No, Lewis, I didn’t.  ‘Cause it doesn’t matter anyway; we’re still engaged now, ring or no ring,” he said, feeling even more disturbingly lightheaded at having said the word “engaged” out loud.  “No getting out of it, sir.”

_Engaged to Louis Tomlinson.  Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson.  Louis Tomlinson.  Harry Styles-Tomlinson.  Harry Tomlinson._

Harry held out his hand, feeling so giddy that he couldn’t help giggling, “But, gimme… please.”

Louis had been staring down at the box as he tried and failed to open it and he lifted his head to look up at Harry again, grinning so wide it must have hurt, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.  He raised his eyebrows, took a deep breath, and then calmly succeeded in opening it at last.  He presented its contents to Harry with an exaggeratedly triumphant look on his face.

The ring was lovely, an elegant silver band, but Harry could barely see it through his renewed tears.  He was laughing and crying at the same time as Louis took the initiative to slide it onto his finger.

“I love you so much, Louis,” Harry murmured, utterly overcome with emotion.  “So much -- I-I --” he tugged Louis to his feet and pulled him into a fierce embrace, burying his face in the roots of Louis’s hair and breathing him in, inhaling the rich, clean scent of him.  “So much.”

Louis made a small sound of contentment where he was pressed into Harry’s chest and hearing it made Harry let out a whimper of happiness in return.  He felt so incredibly buoyant; it was like his heart was a fucking balloon inside his chest, filled up with helium and threatening to lift him and Louis right off the ground.

“So much,” Harry whispered again into Louis’s hair, rocking him back and forth a little.  “I can’t believe…  So much.  Love you so much.”

Louis tilted his head back, looking up at Harry with sharply affectionate eyes and Harry sighed and dropped a kiss onto his mouth at last.  It was the purest, loveliest, sweetest kiss of Harry’s entire life.  The pleasure of it started deep in his heart and unspooled throughout his whole body, out to the tips of his fingers and down to his toes, making him feel like he was radiating light.

“I love you, too,” Louis whispered when they broke apart for air, tugging gently on Harry’s curls.  “I love you and I’m gonna to marry you.  We’re getting married.”

Harry laughed again, tears spilling out of his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since he’d gotten to St. Luke’s.  He swept his hands up and down Louis’s back, relishing the sturdy feel of his body. Muscle and tendon and bone; Louis was real and Harry loved him.  So much.

“‘S not fair,” he said softly, his voice still muffled by Louis’s hair.

“What’s not?”

“Our anniversary’s tomorrow,” Harry complained, jostling Louis with his knee and then hugging him even closer.  “You -- you preempted me.”

“What, were you going to propose, too?” Louis asked, his tone doubtful.

“Well, no,” Harry admitted, and they both started to laugh, “but you said before --”

“I know.  I know,” Louis interrupted, still laughing.  “I called dibs.”

They’d discussed their future frequently over the past nine months, and marriage had definitely been a large part of those discussions.  Louis had dropped a lot of not-so-subtle hints that he wanted to do the asking, when it came time.  Harry had been fine with that.

“You weren’t expecting it at all?” Louis asked, tightening his grip around Harry’s waist.

Harry shrugged.  “I dunno…  I guess I thought _maybe_ tomorrow… hoped in an abstract, fantasy kind of way.”  His cheeks went a little pink as he said it, realizing he’d been staring off into the distance during rehearsals that week when the cellos weren’t playing, imagining Louis proposing to him.  None of his daydreams had been nearly as wonderful as this, simple and perfect and so Louis.  “Got you a present, though.”

“Yeah?” Louis said, leaning back in Harry’s arms so he could smile up at him eagerly.

Harry laughed.  “‘Course.”

Louis snuggled back into Harry’s chest.

“It’s in my bag,” Harry said.

Louis literally pushed him away.  “Well, get it out!” he demanded in a huff.

Harry rolled his eyes, hopelessly endeared as he bent down to pull the little parcel from his satchel.

“‘S not much...” he said, shrugging as he stood back up, feeling suddenly bashful as he handed it over.

Louis gave him a skeptical look, arching his brow before he tore off the paper that Harry had so painstakingly wrapped it in.  (The gift had rounded edges, so it had been no easy task.)

Harry couldn’t help the way his heart started to thrum with nervous excitement as Louis stared at the small, circular tin in the palm of his hand.  He gently prised the top off, peering down at the cake of rosin inside, glowing amber in the soft candlelight.

“There’s --” Harry began, but Louis was already turning the lid over, holding it close to one of the flames to better see the inscription.

“To Louis,” he read in a choked whisper.  “Love always, H…”

Harry fidgeted in front of Louis, waiting for him to look up from the gift.  He had so many thoughts and emotions inside him, he didn’t know what to say, where to begin.

 _“Harry,”_ Louis said finally, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes at last.  There were fresh tears on his face.

Harry laughed wetly, suddenly a little sheepish about the profound depth of his feelings.  “I want --” he cleared his throat, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too, Louis.  Want to be there.  Want… want to support you --”

But Louis was cutting him off with another kiss, his fingers threading back into Harry’s curls.

“I know, I know,” he murmured against Harry’s lips.  “You’ve got me.  You’ve got me…  And I’ve got you.”

“Forever,” Harry whispered back, muffled by kisses.  The magnitude of what had just happened was still settling in.

Louis nodded.  “Forever.”

They snogged for several minutes and just as things were getting heated, Harry backing Louis up against the desk, Louis broke the kiss.  A startled laugh punched out of him and he shook his head.

“What?” Harry asked, smiling, his eyes searching Louis’s face for an answer.

Louis snorted in indignation, rolling his eyes fondly and gesturing loosely to the flower petals and the melting candles.  “‘S just, you out-romanced me in my own romance installation, you jerk!”  He shook his head.  “Showing up at your own surprise proposal with a rosin of eternal devotion…  Unbelievable behavior, Styles!”

Harry giggled breathlessly, happy tears obscuring his vision yet again as he shook his head in wordless protest.  He was so in love.  So fucking lucky.

“I even drew hearts all over the blackboards!  And I’m still not on your level,” Louis grumped.

Harry let out a surprised bark of laughter.  “What?” he yelped in delight.  He flicked on the lights, needing to see.  “You did what?”

Sure enough, Louis had disregarded the permanent staff lines on the chalkboards and both surfaces were covered with sloppily drawn hearts of various sizes.

“This is the greatest moment of my entire life, and it just keeps getting better,” Harry said gleefully.  He clapped his hands like an overgrown child as he took it all in.  “You complete sap, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis smiled broadly as he watched him.  “Got bored waiting for you to get here is all,” he said with a shrug.

“Oh sure, sure,” Harry said, pulling Louis’s body against his own again.  “What was your plan next, draw some stick figures of us holding hands?”

Louis put on a theatrical pout.  He dug two knuckles into the muscles of Harry’s stomach.  “Stop trying to one-up me with your romance ideas, you menace!”

“I’d never,” Harry whispered fondly, ducking his head to press his lips to Louis’s again.  He hummed happily into the kiss and laughed some more.  “Thought you were just luring me here for sex, when I saw your messages.”

“Well,” Louis laughed, his eyes crinkling up, full of love and a hot touch of lust.  He hopped up onto the desk and tugged Harry between his legs, squeezing at his arse.  “That _was_ my endgame...”

 

Louis had come upstairs for a reason, he knew that for sure.  He’d had a specific plan when he’d set out from the living room and jogged up the back staircase, but now he was standing in the middle of the hallway with a hand on his forehead, trying desperately to remember what it was.  He made several frustrated grumping noises because mentally retracing his steps wasn’t working, and he was just about to admit defeat and go back downstairs in the hope that actually, physically retracing them would jog his memory when he heard Harry’s voice from down the hall.

“Lou?” he called out.  “Is that you?”

Louis shuffled down to Harry’s office, sticking his head in the door.  “Yeah.”

Harry laughed and leaned back in his ancient swivel chair.  “What are you doing out there?  Keep hearing these grunting sounds.  Is everything all right?”

Louis sighed, stepping fully into the doorway.  “Yeah, it’s just, I can’t remember why I came up here in the first place…”

Harry chuckled again.  “Oh senior moment, huh?”

Louis made a quiet clucking noise of denial.  “Happens to humans of all ages, Harold!”

Harry just smiled at him, clearly unconvinced.  He shrugged, trying for nonchalant.  “Well, now that you’re up here...”

“Now that I’m up here…?” Louis said, fighting a smile.  He knew what was coming.

“Wanna come stand behind me?” Harry asked, grinning in what he obviously thought was a persuasive manner.  He was moving his head around now too, his hair flopping forward over his face a bit, as a way to hint at what he wanted.

“You are incorrigible,” Louis said with an affectionate roll of his eyes.  “I’m not giving you a head massage, Styles.”

“Styles-Tomlinson,” Harry corrected, just like Louis knew he would.  “And come on, _please_.  I’ve been staring at these damn scores all day and I have a massive headache…”

He pouted ever so slightly, and even though Louis _knew_ that after almost twenty years together Harry thought he had it calibrated just right to make Louis cave in, he felt himself doing exactly that anyway.

He glanced down at his watch.  “Okay, but only five minutes,” he said, giving Harry a stern look.  “And none of your demand-y demands…”

Harry was the picture of innocence, as though completely unaware that he typically let out a string of requests like “Finger combs!  Do finger combs!”  and “Can you get my neck?  Like, right there, nope -- right.  Oh.  Yep!  Yep!  There!  Temples, please, temples!  Perfect,” the second Louis’s hands were in his hair.

“Ten minutes?” he asked, looking at Louis from under his lashes, eyes full of tentative hope.

Louis couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him.  “Ugh, fine.  God, Hazza, you are worse than Francie and Mikey.”

Harry laughed along with him.  Frances and Mikey were always trying to negotiate another fifteen minutes on FIFA before they went to bed.  Louis was admittedly a pretty big pushover about that, too.

“Love you,” Harry murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head back so the top of it brushed lightly against Louis’s stomach.  His face relaxed into a blissful expression when Louis buried his fingers in his hair.  “Best hands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said.  He smiled and tugged gently on his husband’s curls before rubbing circles into the base of his skull with his thumbs.  Harry sighed with pleasure, melting into his chair.

“What’ve you been working on?” Louis asked, peering over Harry’s shoulder at the score that was spread out in front of him.

“The Holst, right now,” Harry explained softly.  “Just trying to get my program all set for Open Air…”

Louis hummed in response, dropping a kiss onto the crown of Harry’s head in commiseration over his hard work and breathing in the faint, familiar scent of lilac and citrus.  Every year at the end of May the LSO put on a free concert in Trafalgar Square, and Harry had conducted the past few years running.  He always dedicated a lot of time to finding pieces that were interesting to play, crowd pleasing, and highly effective without the acoustics of a concert hall.

Louis felt a surge of pride thinking about how dashing Harry would look, leading the orchestra outside in the fading natural light, his lovely hair fluttering in the wind.  He’d kissed him maybe a little bit longer than necessary after their performance the previous year, much to the embarrassment of their children.

“Where are the kids right now, anyway?” Harry asked, after a few minutes, as if he was reading Louis’s mind.

“Well, aren’t you lucky I keep such good track of them!  I suppose someone has to do it,” Louis teased.  He slipped his fingers through Harry’s dark hair repeatedly as he spoke, relishing the silky feel of it against his skin and smiling at the more than occasional thread of silver that glinted in the light.  “Our eldest daughter is currently at work...”

“Knew that,” Harry mumbled, making a little groan of approval as Louis’s fingers pressed into his scalp again.

“And Frances and Mikey are in the backyard messing about with those weird kids from three houses down,” he went on.

“The Omerniks,” Harry supplied, eyes still shut.

“Right.  And Mira is over at the Horans', playing with Patrick,” Louis said.  He removed one of his hands from Harry’s hair and pointed his index finger into the air several times in a dorky motion of triumph.  “Aha!  Aha!  That is why I came upstairs!  Niall told me he’d write some notes on my new piece and I was gonna drop it off for him when I picked her up!”

He made to move away, but Harry grabbed him quickly by the wrist, eyes wide.  “Noooo,” he whined, “you can’t leave.  You have to give a two-minute warning before you stop!  Those are the rules; you know that.”

Louis snorted in exasperated amusement.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, clearly not sorry at all.  “It’s required.  Those are the rules, I don’t make them.”

Louis was laughing openly now.  “You most certainly do!”

Harry laughed silently along with him, his eyes fluttering shut again.  His dimples were deep, the happiness clear on his face.  Louis rolled his eyes at the love that spread through his body at the sight of him.  As if he could ever really deny Harry anything.

“Fine, but consider this your official two-minute warning, okay?  You big baby,” Louis said, trying to sound put out as he settled back in behind his husband, tracing Harry’s eyebrows with his fingertips now.  “You owe me…”

“Oh?” Harry said, pleased.  He broke out into a cheeky smile and snaked a hand around the back of the chair to give Louis’s arse a gentle little squeeze through his trackies.  “Angling for sexual favors, are we?”

Louis giggled, smacking at Harry’s hand.  He shrugged.  “Wouldn’t mind…”

Harry waggled his eyebrows suggestively under Louis’s fingertips and it was so ridiculous and endearing that Louis was forced to kiss him again, this time turning Harry’s head to the side before he bent down to press their lips together.

Harry laughed into the kiss in muffled surprise, swiveling his chair so he could pull Louis down onto his lap and snog him properly, two-minute warning now an afterthought.

“Oh, God.  My eyes.”

Harry and Louis broke apart as the sound of their thirteen-year-old daughter’s voice quickly faded back from the doorway and into the hall.  They knocked their foreheads together and giggled quietly in response.

“Ugh gross, I can hear you laughing, you know,” Frances complained from behind the door.  Louis could just picture her, a dismayed hand covering her bright red face.

He quirked an eyebrow at Harry, smirking down at him, still perched on his knee.  “What was it that you wanted, Francie?” he asked, trying and failing to conceal his glee at her discomfort.

She groaned.  “Oh my god, you are so embarrassing…”  She kicked at the door a few times to convey her annoyance but then continued meekly.  “I just wanted to ask Dad about dinner...”

“Fajitas,” Harry said, clearing his throat.

“Can Beth and Ben stay over for it?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s fine.  I’m sure there’ll be enough,” he replied.

“‘Kay, thank you.”  And then she was pelting back down the stairs and presumably out of the house.

Louis beamed at Harry as his husband broke out into laughter again after Francie’s departure, the apples of his cheeks a rosy red.

Their kids were always complaining about how disgustingly demonstrative the two of them were together, occasionally making barfing noises about them holding hands, always making a big deal out of covering their eyes and ears when Harry and Louis kissed.  Sometimes Harry would point out that when they got to be adults themselves, they’d be happy that old fogies like their parents still wanted to kiss, but they always vehemently denied it.  Louis knew that deep down, they were already pleased.

He and Harry had come home from a late rehearsal a few weeks before and stood in the hall, listening while Lydia, their oldest, tucked her little sister into bed.  She’d been telling Mira what it meant that their next door neighbors, the Smiths, were getting a divorce and that Mrs. Smith was getting remarried.  They’d talked about Grandma Anne and Grandpa Des and Lydia had explained how Grandpa Robin was actually Harry’s stepdad, and that it didn’t make a difference in how much any of them loved Harry and Aunt Gemma.

“I love Grandpa Robin loads,” Mira had whispered.  “But--but, that’ll never happen to Daddy and Papa, right?”  She was a little breathless, worry coloring her voice.

Lydia had laughed softly.  “No, Mir-Mir.  God, no…  Daddy and Papa might argue every once in a while, but they love each other.  They love each other so much, and no one is going anywhere.”  She paused for a second, and when she continued her voice was hushed and touched with a little awe.  “We’re a happy family, Mira…  We’re really lucky.  You don’t have to worry.  And even if something did happen, which it won’t, no one is ever going to stop loving you.  Not me, or Papa, or Dad, or Francie, or Mikey.  Never, okay?  You’ll always have a family, no matter what.”

Louis had been entirely unsurprised to see Harry’s eyes lit up with love as they crept down the hallway to their bedroom together; he felt like his were shining with it as well.  He let his husband pull him into a big hug as soon as they’d closed the door behind them, squeezing him tight.  Then Harry’d smiled down at him, voice full of wonder and pride.  “We’re doing a good job, Lou.”  He shook his head in awed disbelief, the depth of his happiness apparent.  “We’re raising good kids.  I love you all.  I love you so much.”

Louis had blinked back up at him, feeling radiant with joy, suddenly completely overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotion.  He made a big show, usually, about how much he loved their kids and their family.  He’d open his arms wide in the kitchen when everyone was sitting down to dinner and say, “Hello, dear, wonderful family!  Let us eat.”  Or he’d stand at the base of the stairs and yell up to the kids in their rooms with theatrical gusto, “Come down here, right now, my children!  Come down and let’s watch telly together like a proper family, no excuses!”  He left big, smacking kisses on their foreheads and hugged them and told them he loved them, individually, every single day.  And he meant it, and they knew he did.  But there was something about talking about it with Harry this way, so earnestly, that was particularly special and poignant for him.  It absolutely floored him whenever they did it.  It always made Louis realize that the family he and Harry had built together, the love that they shared, was his life’s greatest accomplishment and gift.  It was the one thing he was most proud of and most grateful for.  No matter how many times he said it, and no matter how emphatically, he’d never be able to fully express the scope of how much he loved them all.  There would always be more inside him; Louis would always love his children more than he could possibly say.

“I love our family, Harry,” he’d breathed out, sagging against Harry’s warm, sturdy body with a full heart.  “I love it so much.  The most.  The most.”

Harry had held him close, whispering his agreement into Louis’s ear.

“Fajitas, huh?” Louis asked now, kissing Harry once more on the lips before climbing off his lap.  

“Mhmm,” Harry said.  “Family favorite.”

“Gonna go collect Mir from Niall’s, then we’ll help you set the table when we get back?”

“Sure,” Harry said, his pretty eyes twinkling.

“Love you, Lou,” he called out as Louis left his office and made his way down the front stairs.  “Don’t forget your music!”

“Thank you!” Louis yelled back, reversing course and heading back up to their bedroom to grab his new violin concerto off the nightstand.  He’d already forgotten all about it.  “Love you too!”

Louis knew when he got back Harry would be humming along to his ever-expanding Forgotten Classics of American R&B playlist as he bustled around the kitchen in his apron, making dinner.  Lydia would be home from work by then and all the kids would be scurrying in and out of the room, snatching pieces of green pepper off the cutting board and making Harry swat at them good-naturedly.  And then they’d all sit down to dinner, Beth and Ben Omernik too, and Louis would look at Harry from the other end of the table and he would know for sure that there was nothing Harry loved more than having a warm and welcoming home with his entire family in it on a Saturday night.  And Louis would feel the exact same way.

 

Harry stood at the sink while he waited for the kettle to boil, looking out the kitchen window at the swarm of grandchildren playing in the backyard.  He and Louis had invited a bunch of them up for the weekend, the ones who weren’t old enough to be at uni or have part-time jobs or resent being away from their friends for over twenty-four hours.  So, fewer and fewer, as of late.

At the moment the grandchildren who _had_ come to visit were merrily destroying the haphazard leaf piles that they’d spent all afternoon raking up.  Harry was happy to see they’d allowed Duncan to play the role of Godzilla, even though he was the youngest.  Maybe because of it.

Harry huffed out a laugh, thinking about earlier, when a rather vicious fight had broken out between Duncan and Emily.  She had announced that he was a “snot machine bogey boy” who should stay at least five feet away from her, and he’d retaliated by crying and telling her that she was so bossy he didn’t want to be near her anyway.  Then there had been a bit of shoving and a lot of futile kicking on Duncan’s part.

Louis had employed his most treasured disciplinary technique to diffuse the situation.

“Emily.  Dunky.  I want you to stand face to face, please,” he’d said, putting a small but firm hand on each child’s shoulder and coaxing them into position.  “Okay, good.  And put your arms around each other.  Good.  Now, stare into each other’s eyes.  No cheating!  No looking away…  Okay, and tell each other that you love each other…  Say it.  ‘I love you.’  I’m waiting,” he’d instructed, as Harry looked on from the deck.  “And you have to mean it…  Right in the eyes.  You can’t fool me, I’ll know.”

Harry hadn’t been able to see his face, but he knew Louis’s eyes must have been twinkling and that he was probably just barely suppressing a smile.

The kids had resisted as long as they could, whining _“Grandpaaaaa”_ and twisting their little bodies around avoid it.  Of course, once they’d given in and looked at each other directly they’d immediately dissolved into giggles, united in their embarrassment and also in their annoyance at their grandfather for requesting such a monumentally difficult and outrageous thing.  Louis had used the exact same method with their own children years and years ago, and they’d hated it just as much.

Harry laughed again, shaking his head as he moved toward the whistling kettle.  He switched the burner off beneath it and got to work making Louis his cuppa, dunking the bag a few times, but leaving it in like Louis preferred.

Louis was in the den now, tucked up in his favorite chair by the fire with an afghan.  He hadn’t lasted all that long outside.  There was a damp chill in the air that snuck in through multiple layers of clothing, and Louis had grown more susceptible to that kind of thing, lately.  The truth was, he’d slowed down a bit since turning eighty-three the Christmas before.  He tired out a little more quickly, couldn’t get around quite as easily, had less of an appetite.

Harry was beginning to feel it too, recently.  There was a deep-seated fatigue in his bones that never fully left him, and just the other day he had been momentarily disoriented by a quick glimpse in the mirror from across a room -- he hadn’t recognized the increasingly pronounced stoop of his shoulders in his own reflection.

There always seemed to be another sign that the sun was really beginning to set.  Another sign that they were truly old.  They’d both come to accept it.

Louis had stumbled upon what he referred to as a “motto for the octogenarian,” happily espousing it to Harry, and really anyone who’d listen, whenever he could: Never trust a fart.  Never pass up a drink.  Never ignore an erection.

The mischievous twinkle in Louis's eyes whenever he said it flickered through Harry's mind as he warmed his fingertips on the cup of tea, gently easing his way through the door to the den.  He smiled at the sight of Louis, dwarfed by his favorite oversized chair, his feet kicked up on an ottoman.  Even after all these years, Harry still loved to look at his husband, especially when he was unaware he was being observed.

Louis was peering down through his bifocals at a score in his lap, in the vaguely aristocratic way he'd always had.  Every so often he turned the page with a quick flick of his wrist and then absentmindedly brushed his soft white hair off his forehead, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and murmuring to himself while tapping a pencil against his lips.  Louis didn’t have the stamina (or the finger joints) for hours-long practice sessions on the violin any more, but he was still composing, his mind as sharp as ever. 

Harry cleared his throat.  “Delivery, dear,” he said, his voice a little teasing.

Louis’s head snapped up to look at him, a slow grin spreading across his face.  He rolled his eyes and snorted affectionately, swinging his legs down off the footrest and sitting up more fully.  “Took you long enough.”

Harry chuckled and sat down across from him on the ottoman, holding out the tea.

“Thank you, love,” Louis whispered, adjusting the papers in his lap and taking the cup from him.  He sipped it hesitantly, testing for heat and taste.  “Kids still out back?”

Harry nodded.  The sleeve of Louis’s jumper had pulled back a bit when he’d reached for the tea, exposing the faded bass clef tattoo on his wrist.  Harry smiled to himself, resting his hand on his own complementary treble out of subconscious habit.

“Another half hour or so?” Louis asked, submerging the bag in the tea a few more times as he spoke.

Harry nodded again, his brow furrowing in mild concern.  “Did you want to nap?”

Louis scrunched up his face, rolling his eyes again and shaking his head.  He took another sip of tea and then set the saucer and cup down on the little table next to him.

“Nah, ‘m fine.  Are you gonna sit with me?” he asked, smiling up at Harry, the skin at the sides of his eyes bunching up into deep crinkles.  He scooted over to one side, shuffling his papers more as he created a space beside himself in the chair, one that was much too small for Harry to actually sit in. He gestured to the flaming log in the fireplace.  “I managed to light it all on my own, see?  ‘S very cozy in here...”

Harry laughed affectionately, shaking his head.  “Want to get a start on dinner before they come inside.”

“Ah, okay,” Louis said, reluctantly.  He tugged on Harry’s arm so he’d bend down for a kiss on the cheek.  “Well, thank you again for the tea, my beautiful, beautiful boy.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said softly, rosy love for Louis warming his chest.  It caught him off guard sometimes, how that simple phrase could still fill him with pleasure, could still send a satisfied thrill down his spine.

It was just after he’d slipped back through the door to the kitchen that he heard Oscar’s voice pipe up in the den.

“Beautiful boy?!” he demanded, and Harry stopped in his tracks, pausing to listen.  He’d completely forgotten that Oscar had refused to go outside because he’d wanted to play with his blocks instead.  He’d probably been huddled in the little nook behind the couch for hours, entertaining himself.  “Why’d you call Grandad a beautiful boy?  He’s not a boy!  He’s too old!”

Harry had to cover his mouth to keep from barking out a laugh.  Oscar was nine and a stickler about everything.  Just that morning he’d made Harry list off all of the grandkids as quickly as possible from oldest to youngest as a “grandad memory test” and then called him out for stalling between names when Harry couldn’t remember which one of the twins was older, David or Daniel. 

Louis didn’t hold back from laughing at all; he was cackling away and in Harry’s mind’s eye his head was thrown back, eyes completely scrunched up in amusement.

“Oh, c’mere Oskie, and I’ll tell you,” he said, after he’d finally stopped chuckling.  “Wait.  Wait.  Grab that photo album on the way -- nope.  Yep, that one.”

Harry listened with a small smile on his face, fingers still on his lips as he heard Oscar clamber up onto the easy chair with Louis, Louis grunting softly as the boy settled in beside him.

“Beautiful boy is a term of endearment,” Louis explained.  “Do you know what that means?” 

Oscar made a noncommittal sound and Louis chuckled again.

“It’s just a special way to refer to the people you love, to let them know that you care about them.  Like when I call you or your sister ‘love’ or ‘darling…’  That kind of thing,” Louis laughed.  “Or your mum, she calls your dad ‘babe’ or ‘baby’ sometimes, doesn’t she?”

Harry assumed that Oscar was nodding.

“But he’s not a baby, is he?” Louis asked.

“No…” Oscar said.  “He’s an adult.”  He sounded embarrassed at having to discuss anything that had to do with his parents being in love, but also like his skepticism was dissolving.

“Right.  Exactly,” Louis went on.  “Now, your grandad hasn’t been a boy for quite some time, but I call him that every once in a while anyway.  It’s a term of endearment I use exclusively for him… because I love him so much, the most out of everyone, and I want him to know.  Do you see?”

Oscar made a little humming noise of understanding and Harry smiled, his heart swelling in his chest.

“‘S quite special to me,” Louis murmured.

 _To us,_ Harry thought, shaking his head at himself as he thumbed a tear out of his eye.  He heard Louis pat the leather-bound photo album he’d requested that Oscar bring him.  Harry knew the one it must be.  Their children had it specially made for Harry and Louis’s 25th anniversary, years and years before.  It was full of gorgeous pictures from their wedding and the first few years of their marriage.

“So, do you want to see some pictures of us when we were younger?” Louis asked.  “Grandad wasn’t a boy then either, but he was very beautiful…”

It was quiet it for a moment.

“Correct answer is yes, you little monster,” Louis rasped, and Harry heard Oscar started to giggle from being tickled.

“Okay, okay,” Oscar conceded, happily gasping for breath.  “I wanna see.  I wanna see.”

“Good,” Louis said, and Harry heard the spine of the album creak as Louis opened it.

“‘S that when you got married?” Oscar asked.

“Mhmm,” Louis hummed out, pleased. 

Harry could see each photograph clearly in his head as Louis slowly turned the pages, whispering commentary to Oscar as he did.  A crisp black-and-white shot of Louis sliding a ring onto Harry’s finger, the fan of his eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheekbones as he looked down at their tangled hands.  The two of them kissing at the end of the ceremony, Harry’s hand on Louis’s hip, Louis cradling Harry’s face.  Harry grinning at the camera, eyes so bright, cake smeared across his mouth, Louis laughing in the background.  Their first dance, Louis in Harry’s arms, smiling up at him, both of them so happy.  And then.

“Who’s that, Grandpa?” Oscar asked, and Harry’s breath caught before he let out a small whimper of a laugh.  He knew right away what picture it was, remembered which one was next.  It was a photograph of a famous moment at their wedding, a memory they’d laughed about for years.  After the live band had gotten warmed up and the party was in full swing, Niall and Gladys had been dancing together to “Shout” by the Isley Brothers, really putting on a show.  Right at the climax of the song, in midst of a ridiculous, totally committed jump/strut across the dance floor, Niall had slipped on the sole of his fancy wedding shoe and fallen flat on his back.  Gladys had continued to prance around him, her arms raised over her head, looking like some sort of glamorous, black-tie water bird and laughing madly.  Niall had been curled into a helpless ball of hysterical joy on the floor.

“”S your Great Uncle Niall…” Louis explained, his voice a little tight, “and Gladys Howard, one of the greatest ladies I’ve ever known...” 

Harry sighed, shakily, leaning back against the door.  Gladys had died almost three decades before, peacefully in her sleep, but sometimes it felt like just yesterday she’d been dancing with Niall at their wedding, so alive it seemed like she would last forever.  Harry gave a wet laugh, tears spilling onto his cheeks.  He could almost smell the Shalimar.

He dabbed at the tears with the back of his hand, thinking about something Niall had said recently over a pint, about how funerals were getting to be a little like weddings had been when they were in their late twenties and early thirties -- one almost every week.

It was true, of course.  The longer he and Louis lived, the more people they’d had to add to the list of those they’d lost.  Harry had moments sometimes where he thought that maybe he ought to be slightly more inured to it by now, that the wisdom and experience of old age should somehow leave him less vulnerable to being affected by such things.  Really, for him, it had been the exact opposite.  It wasn’t just the lows that hit him harder as life went on, it was the highs too.  Every first dance recital, every primary school graduation, and every grandchild with an unrequited crush.  Every new baby.  Every bad prognosis.  Moments of joy and moments of sadness, small and large alike; Harry felt them all so sharply.  Everything.  As he’d gotten older, life seemed to make his heart well up like a bottomless fount of emotion more and more, and as a result he teared up much more often too.

And always Louis was there, chuckling low and affectionate whenever it happened.  He’d offer Harry a tissue with warm, understanding eyes and suggest that he might look into getting a handkerchief one of these days, his small hand sure on the back of Harry’s neck.

That was a large part of why, Harry knew.  Having Louis by his side all these years, supporting him and loving him unconditionally, had afforded Harry the luxury of keeping his heart so wide-open to the world.  He was staggeringly, mind-boggling lucky, so rich in trust and love that his empathy had only deepened as he'd grown old.  Life hadn’t always been easy, but at times like this, when Harry had a chance to fully reflect, he found it took his breath away how incredible it was and had been, going through it all together.

He was trying to gather himself a little so he could finally get to work on dinner when he heard Louis say, “Oskie!  That’s your Aunt Lydia, the day we took her home from the hospital!  Look how small she is...” and then Harry knew it was a lost cause.

He turned around and opened the door, stepping carefully into the room and smiling at Louis and Oscar with watery eyes.  Louis lifted his head at the sound of the door closing behind Harry.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said with a laugh, his own eyes a little blurred behind his glasses.  “C’mere.”

Harry went.  He stood behind the easy chair with a hand on Louis’s shoulder, looking at the photo album with both of them.  He volunteered his own details about the pictures as Louis continued to page through.  The flavor of the cake at Lydia’s first birthday, their corgi Alfred and how’d he’d been terrified of thunderstorms, the house on Vernon Avenue with the clanging pipes.

The other children tramped in from outside over the next half hour, stomping into the den with cold air and the smell of decaying leaves clinging to their clothes, and almost immediately demanded photo albums of their own.  They ended up sprawled throughout the room, draped over the couch and spread out on their stomachs on the floor with every last album that Harry had insisted on putting together over the past fifty years opened before them.  The kids passed them back and forth and asked question after question as Harry moved around the room to answer them.  Dinner was completely forgotten for the time being. 

“You see, Oscar?” Louis said softly, about an hour and three albums later.  They were still sat together in the easy chair, and he ruffled the boy’s light brown hair, lifting his head to meet Harry’s eyes across the room as he spoke.  “We’ve lived a wonderful life together, your grandad and I…  He’ll always be my beautiful boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes from gloria_andrews:
> 
> Louis’s motto for the octogenarian, as well as general inspiration for the grandpas scene, was taken from [this wonderful article](http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2014/02/17/140217fa_fact_angell?currentPage=all) that Roger Angell wrote for the New Yorker about old age. (Warning it might make you cry.) Angell attributes the motto to Walter Cronkite. There’s a similar phrase used in the movie The Bucket List, but I like this version better.  
>    
> The concept of the Romance Installation is something that Lexy and I have loved since our last big obsession: Christian and Olli (chrolli) from the German soap opera Verbotene Liebe. (At the time we couldn’t imagine a bigger obsession, which is truly hysterical now having Larry perspective.) Anyway, characters on the show are always expressing their love for someone by making a room all fancy with love stuff everywhere and then inviting the object of their affection inside it. [Here is an example](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEUd8xofpRM) of one such installation, where Olli wants to invite Christian on a vacation to the woods of Canada to get away from it all and rekindle the fire of their love!!!!!! (Romance begins at 4:20, there are a lot of antlers) I cannot recommend watching all of the chrolli parts of this show enough. It is a massively joy bringing experience!!!
> 
> P.S. Lexy proposed to her husband with the greatest Romance Installation I've ever seen because she is the coolest. 
> 
> Notes from 100percentsassy:
> 
> Thank you Addy! It was an ok romance installation but there were no antlers. I agree about recommending Chrolli. [Here's a link](http://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3UjzTRymDb6YCCzIepdnNw) to a Youtube person who posted two playlists; the first one starts at the beginning of their romance!
> 
> In case any of you are beer enthusiasts, we are aware that they probably do not have Point Ambers in London, but, hometown pride. Niall would like Point beer, I'm positive!
> 
> Harry's Open Air concert was set to include selections from Gustav Holst's The Planets, always a crowd-pleaser. [Here is a link](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nz0b4STz1lo) to Jupiter, because my daughter's name is going to be Io, which is a moon of Jupiter.
> 
> And I'll link [one more time](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLTxxBGawMErZltiz0UfxHoEDW-FIBj_lT) to Harry's Forgotten Classics of American R&B playlist, which I have been adding to now and again.
> 
> Also [Shout](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpPbmIlBRJU). (Not forgotten, but good for dancing to in all party situations.)
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading and for the kudos, comments and encouragement!!! And for waiting so long for the epilogue. Special thanks to ArielFabulous for inspiring the part about Niall and Gladys!

**Author's Note:**

> We're [gloriaandrews](http://gloriaandrews.tumblr.com/) and [100percentsassy](http://100percentsassy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you'd like to say hi or wey hey or have you quite finished.


End file.
